w 


h^'-'^^,,  .,,.*j- 


POEMS,  ADDRESSES 


AND 


BSSAYS 


BY  THE 


REV.  LLEWELYN  lOAN  EVANS,  D.D.,  LLD. 

Twenty  Nine    Years  Professor  in  Lane  Seminary. 


WITH    PORTRAIT. 


New  York : 

THE  CHRISTIAN   LITERATURE  CO. 

1893. 


Copyright,  1893,  ^'^ 
The  Christian  Literature  Co. 


TO 

Mrs.  Sarah  E.  Evans, 

WHOSE    NAME,    ABOVE    EVERY    OTHER, 

THE   AUTHOR   OF   THESE   PAPERS   WOULD   WISH    TO   HAVE 

ASSOCIATED  WITH  HIS  OWN, 

THIS    VOLUME    IS     RESPECTFULLY 

DEDICATED. 

The  Editor. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

PAGE. 

To  My  Departed  Sister i 

The  Loss  of  Childhood 5 

Sorrow 9 

Quietly,  Quietly 12 

A  Valentine 14 

A  Fantasy  of  Ifs 15 

To  Laura 16 

To  Anna 17 

The  Old  Year 18 

Anno  Domini 21 

The  Shadows 23 

Sonnet 25 

Song 26 

Parting  Song 29 

In  Memoriam 31 


ESSAYS  AND  ADDRESSES. 

PAGE. 

I.  Providence  in  the  Greek  Drama 33 

n.   Christian  Chivalry 51 

in.  The  Influence  of  Civilization  on  Dogmatic  Theology....  60 

IV.   Fiske  on  the  Destiny  of  Man 84 

V.  The  Scholar  as  an  Ethical  Force 106 

VI.  Arthur  Hugh  Clough 131 

VII.  A  Sketch  of  Greek  Poetry 146 

VIII.   Anthropophagy 177 

IX.  Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua 193 

X.  John  Milton,  the  Patriot 204 

XI.  The  Gentleman 261 

XII.  The  Welsh  Pulpit 310 

XIII.  The  Scripture  Doctrine  of  the  Remnant  and  of  Num- 

bers  360 

XIV.  Personal  Christianity 375 

XV.  Farewell  Address 397 


PREFACE, 


This  selection  of  Poems,  Addresses  and  Essays,  by  Dr. 
LI.  I.  Evans,  is  published  in  accordance  with  the  announcement 
in  the  previous  volume  (Preaching  Christ,  Christian  Literature 
Company,  1893),  and  at  the  request  of  many  friends.  The  selec- 
tion is  made  on  the  principle  of  showing  the  manysidedness  of 
his  scholarship,  and  the  variety  of  his  interest  in  history  and  hter- 
ature.  The  papers  bear  witness,  no  less  than  the  sermons  already 
published,  to  the  manner  in  which  he  subordinated  all  his  acqui- 
sitions to  the  Gospel  of  Christ, 

In  preparing  the  papers  for  the  press  the  editor  had  a  delicate 
duty  to  perform.  Many  of  the  addresses  had  been  delivered  more 
than  once,  and  in  these,  frequent  alterations  and  corrections  ap- 
peared. These  were  in  such  shape  that  it  could  not  always  be 
told  whether  they  were  made  at  once,  or  whether  they  represented 
different  stages  of  revision.  The  only  way  in  which  we  could  be 
sure  that  we  had  a  homogeneous  work,  was  in  all  cases  to  go  back 
to  the  earhest  manuscript,  disregarding  the  supplementary  inser- 
tions and  corrections.  The  reader  (and  critic)  will  therefore 
kindly  bear  in  mind  that  the  papers  are  quite  certainly  not  in  the 
form  which  Dr.  Evans  would  have  given  them  had  he  lived  to  see 
them  through  the  press.  There  is  some  compensation  for  this  dis- 
advantage in  the  fact  that,  presented  in  their  original  form,  they 
have  a  certain  freshness  that  might  otherwise  have  been  lost.  If 
we  are  today  strangers  to  the  warmth  and  glow  of  patriotism  which 
are  reflected  in  the  lecture  on  John  Milton  (for  example)  it  may  be 
well  for  us  to  realize  these  emotions  afresh. 

Mr.  J.  J.  Loux,  a  student  in  Lane  Seminary,  the  Rev.  R.  F. 
Souter  and  the  Rev.  J.  L.  Taylor  have  kindly  assisted  in  the  prep- 
aration of  the  copy  for  the  press.  Mr.  Taylor  has  also  kindly 
read  the  proof  of  a  considerable  part  of  the  volume. 

Through  a  misunderstanding  of  the  printer,  the  portrait  in- 
tended for  the  other  volume  was  not  inserted  there,  and  is  there- 
fore given  with  this. 

It  is  my  hope  that  others  may  have  as  much  pleasure  in  read- 
ing these  memorials  as  I  have  had  in  preparing  them  for  the  press. 

H.  P.  S. 
Cincinnati,  Nov.  i,  1893. 


POEMS. 


TO  MY  DEPARTED  SISTER.* 

My  Sister !    Summers  four  have  come  and  gone, 
Bidding  the  grass  grow  green  upon  thy  grave ; 
And  winters  four  have  withered  all  again, 
Then  lightly  spread  their  sheeted  robes  of  snow 
To  hide  the  blight  which  they  and  Death  had  made. 
Spring  comes  again  as  erst  she  came  to  thee, 
And,  fondly  stealing  o'er  the  drooping  scene. 
Whispers  the  earth  and  all  things  into  life. 

The  earth  is  glad. 
For  on  her  bosom  bloom  once  more  the  flowers. 

And  man  is  glad, 
For  birds  once  more  sing  gladly  in  his  bowers. 

But  I  am  sad. 
For  her  I  loved  I  can  no  more  behold ; 

My  heart  is  sad, 
For  one  that  loved  me  now  in  death  lies  cold. 
Oh,  why  should  earth  renew  her  living  hue  of  green, 
But  those  we  loved  no  more — when  life  is  o'er — be  seen? 

I  turn  from  nature,  who  restores 
Life  to  her  dead,  but  not  to  thee ; 
Who  open  flings  her  choicest  stores 
Of  joy  to  all,'  but  not  to  me — 


*  Written  in  the  Album  which  had  belonged  to  his  sister,  dated 
April  21,  1855,  and  signed  ''Thy  Brother,  Llewelyn." 


LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

I  turn  to  view  these  pages,  where 
The  tokens  of  thy  friendships  are 
Embalmed  in  words,  o'er  which  thine  eye 
Once  wandered,  Hngering  tearfully, 
While  many  a  sob  broke  from  thy  heart 
For  friends  from  whom  thou  hadst  to  part. 
Alas !  that  I  should  mourn  to  be 
Parted,  ah  !  not  from  them,  but  thee  ! 
That  their  farewells  should  mind  me  most 
That  thou  to  me  art — lost ! 

I  see  that  name  on  every  leaf — 

That  name  that  once  was  wont  to  thrill 

My  soul  with  joy,  but  now  with  grief! 

'Twas  music  to  my  heart,  until 

Death  spoke  it.     Ah  !  that  speaking  gave 

A  knelling  sadness  to  its  sound. 

As  though  'twere  whispered  from  the  grave, 

Or  told  me  by  thy  lowly  mound. 

Here  thine  own  hand  has  swept  the  page 

And  left  the  traces  of  thy  soul ; 

The  thoughts  that  filled  thy  tender  age, 

The  piety  that  graced  the  whole 

Of  thy  brief  life  ;  the  grace  that  shone 

Through  all  thy  actions,  look  and  speech ; 

That  purity  around  them  thrown 

Which  the  pure  heart  alone  can  teach. 

Companion  of  my  early  days  ! 

And  is  it  true  that  thou  art  gone  ? 
Must  I  plod  on  through  life's  rough  ways 

Without  thy  cheering  smile' — alone  ? 
Ah,  little  I  thought  when,  hand  in  hand, 
We  walked  our  own  sweet  native  land. 


POEMS.  3 

Climbing  its  hills  and  rugged  rocks, 
Whose  mountain  breeze  played  in  thy  locks, 
Or  wandered  by  the  ocean  shore, 
Gathering  the  choicest  shells  it  bore, 
That  but  a  few  short  years  more, 
And  far  beyond  that  playful  wave 
That  did  our  careless  footsteps  lave, 
Thou  there  wouldst  find — ah,  me — a  grave. 

Like  flowers  in  a  garden,  we 

Together  did  begin  to  bloom, 
Together  drank  the  heavenly  ray, 

Together  mingled  love's  perfume ; 
But  thee  the  Heavenly  Gardener  took 

To  grace  his  paradise  above. 
While  I  am  left, 
Of  all  bereft, 
To  tremble  in  the  blast,  and  look 

Upon  the  loss  of  all  I  love. 

But,  unlike  me,  thou  wert  too  delicate 
For  earth,  and  for  the  chilling  storms  of  fate ; 
Thy  soul  and  passions  were  too  finely  strung. 
In  life's  rough  howling  tempests  to  be  hung ; 
Thy  strings  ethereal  would  have  broke  beneath 
Their  rage,  or  sighed  and  sobbed  themselves  to 
death. 

Is  there  a  land  where  none  but  spirit-breezes  blow. 
Where  breathings  of  a  God  through  souls  aeolian  flow ; 
Where  love  grows  back  to  love,  where  souls  responsive 

meet, 
Where  friendship  knows  no  death,  but  holds  communion 

sweet ; 


4  LLEWELYN    10 AN    EVANS. 

Where  all  the  good  and  beautiful  for  evermore  unite, 
Where  a  fairer  form  than  e'er  I  dreamed  seems  beckoning 

to  invite ; 
Where  the  weary  are  at  rest  from  suffering  and  care  ? 
Then,  Sister,  thou  art  blest,  for  thou  I  know  art  there. 


POEMS. 


THE  LOSS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

Oh !  why,  when  childhood's  dawn 

Fades  into  hfe's  full  noon, 
Do  the  glories  auroral  where  it  is  born, 
Vanish  away  like  the  tints  of  morn, 
So  soon,  so  soon  ? 

And  childhood's  rosy  dreanis, 

So  beautiful  and  fair. 
Like  cherubs  smiling  from  the  sky 
Whither,  ah,  whither  do  they  fly 

Like  air,  like  air  ? 

Those  dreams  of  Paradise, 

And  blissful  scenes  above  ; 
Gardens  and  groves  and  bowers  of  light, 
And  angel  forms  and  faces  bright 
With  love,  with  love. 

And  dreams  of  purity, 

Purer  than  the  light  of  day ; 
Of  beauty  untainted  and  divine. 
Of  love  that  will  the  brighter  shine 

For  aye,  for  aye. 

And  the  gay  bright  hopes  of  youth. 
That  with  their  beckoning  calls, 
Lead  us  to  follow  with  eager  chase. 
Why  do  they  mock  our  fond  embrace, 
So  false,  so  false  ? 


LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVA:NS. 

And  why,  when  these  are  fled 

With  vanished  days  of  yore, 
Does  the  heart  of  man  in  sadness  yearn. 
As  though  Hke  those  they  would  return 
No  more,  no  more? 

Is  it  they  are  but  dreams, 

Never  to  come  again, 
Which  neither  Fancy's  wizard  spell. 
Nor  Will's  strong  fiat  can  compel 

Here  to  remain? 

Oh!  what  a  change  has  come, 

When  that  which  charmed  me  most 
When  I  was  fresh  from  the  bosom  of  God, 
And  when  beauty  sprung  wherever  I  trod. 
Is  lost,  is  lost ! 

When  the  heaven -reflecting  purity, 
The  soul-revealing  simplicity, 
The  heart-born  laugh  of  innocence. 
The  sun-lit  look  of  confidence. 
Trusting,  enjoying,  loving  all. 
Beautifying  and  brightening  all, 
And  the  delightful  unconsciousness 
Of  life  from  its  very  blessedness 
Are  lost,  are  lost. 

And  when  instead  of  these 

Comes  Apathy's  dead  mould, 
Unfeeling,  blunt  indifference. 
The  torpor  of  the  spirit's  sense, 
The  unbelieving  mocking  jeer, 
The  scorning  pride,  the  frigid  sneer. 
Scoffing,  mistrusting,  doubting  all. 
Spurning,  rejecting,  scouting  all. 


POEMS. 

Feeling  by  rule,  living  by  art, 
And  living  for  self,  until  the  heart 
Is  cold,  is  cold ! 

Is  this  to  be  a  man. 

To  be  unhappier,  worse  ? 
Are  these  the  fruits  of  his  Life-tree, 
The  promised  gifts  of  Destiny  ? 
Apples  of  Sodom  !  Ah !  these  be 

The  curse,  the  curse  ! 

The  curse  of  the  faithlessness 

To  the  high  intents  of  youth, 

And  of  the  decay  of  loyalty 
To  the  majesty  of  truth. 

The  curse  of  the  restlessness 

Which  snatches  at  the  bloom, 

And  misses  the  eternal  fruit 

For  a  moment's  short  perfume. 

The  curse  of  the  waywardness 

Which  bursts  from  Eden's  bounds, 

And  quits  its  angel-guarded  walks 
For  Time's  enchanted  grounds. 

The  curse  of  the  selfishness 

Whose  inturned  Gorgon-eye 

Freezes  the  heart  into  a  stone. 
Hard,  barren,  dreary. 

The  curse  of  the  sordidness 

Which  crawls  like  any  beast. 

Feeding  on  weeds,  and  husks  of  swine, 

•    Disdaining  Heaven's  high  feast. 


LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

The  curse  of  the  unbelief 

In  instinct's  heavenly  call, 

Refusing  to  hear  and  believe 

The  voice  of  God  in  the  soul. 

Oh !  would  we  see  again 

Our  Paradise  on  earth, 
We  must  the  hearts  of  youth  renew, 
We  must  in  lowliness  go  through 

The  Second  Birth. 

And  the  guards  of  Eden's  gates, 

Who  watch  with  flaming  swords, 
Will  wave  us  in,  and  there  we  may 
Among  unfading  glories  stray, 
And  quaff  the  nectar-drops  alway 
Which  in  the  Fount  of  Youth  do  play ; 
For  children  and  the  childlike,  they 
Are  Eden's  lords. 


POEMS. 


SORROW. 


Oft  have  I  sat  and  watched  the  day's  last  gleam, 

And  seen  the  brightness  fade  from  out  the  sky, 

Seen  darksome  clouds  upon  my  vision  heave 
Where  fire  and  darkness  mingled  gloomily : 

And  I  have  turned  myself  unto  the  night 

Like  the  sad,  light-forsaken  Earth  and  prayed — 

"Come,  Mother!  visit  thou  my  spirit's  blight 
And  bathe  me  with  thy  darkest  dewy  shade, 

Come,  holy  Sorrow !  Hang  thy  gloomy  pall 

Around  my  soul,  for  its  bright  sun  is  gone. 

The  light  which  beautified  and  haloed  all 

Is  vanished — vanished !  why  should  I  look  on 

Those  dim  gray  walls,  where  late  a  living  glory  shone?  " 

And  gracious  night  has  come  and  wrapped  me  round 

In  her  thick  shadows  where  my  soul  did  creep 
To  utter  low  her  wail  of  mournful  sound 

And  o'er  her  lonely  desolation  weep. 
Then  have  I  seen  those  shadows  melt  away 

And  Heaven  begin  t'  appear,  though  high  and  far, 
Wherein  the  glory  of  my  departed  day, 

Shone  beautifuller  in  each  happy  star : 
Ay,  Night  and  sorrow !  ye  are  both  divine, 

Ye  both  reveal  to  man  the  Infinite. 

Ye  teach  me  that  the  Infinite  is  mine 

With  all  it  doth  contain  that's  pure  and  bright; 

For  ere  ye  came,  I  fluttered  in  the  light 
Like  a  vain  insect,  living  its  short  hour 
And  thinking  only  of  its  honeyed  flower; 

But  ye  beneath,  my  soul  like  the  deep  moaning  sea 

Yearneth  the  night  long  to  her  own  eternity. 


lO  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

*Tis  for  Eternity  I  yearn,  for  there 

Is  garnered  all  my  beautiness  and  bliss : 

All,  whereof  my  full  being  was  a  share  ; 

All  which  my  widowed  spirit  now  doth  miss ; 

Those  beautiful  we  loved,  did  they  not  come. 

Singing  sweet  music  through  our  souls,  like  some, 

Stray  snatches  of  a  heavenly  symphony, 

Aye  swelling  out  in  richer  harmony, 

Until,  become  too  pure  for  mortal  ears. 

They  passed  and  blended  v/ith  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

Though  they  are  gone,  their  tender  strains  yet  sleep 

Within  our  heartstrings ;  and  when  memory 
Like  some  strong  breeze  our  bosom-chords  doth  sv/eep 

They  wake  again  in  sweet  though  sad  reply. 
What  then  is  gone  ?  'tis  but  the  outward  form  ! 

The  spirit — all  that  we  did  hold  most  dear — 
The  melody  that  did  each  tone  inform — 

The  grace — the  loveliness — they  still  are  here. 
They  still  are  ours,  and  ours  will  be  ever : 
For  Thou,  our  heavenly  Father !  Thou  wouldst  never 

Give  man  the  beautiful  and  to  him  say, 
*'This  shall  be  thine  to  love  and  to  adore  ;" 

Then  snatch  it  from  his  grov/ing  love  away, 
And  leave  him  mourning  it  for  evermore. 
The  good  whom  we  did  love  in  happier  hours 

Were  given  to  prove  that  Goodness  is  our  own. 
The  beautiful — they  were,  are,  will  be  ours  ; 

The  fragrance  tarries,  though  the  flower  be  flown. 
Thou,  Father  !  gavest  them  to  teach  us  love  ; 

Thou  tookest  them  that  we  might  love  still  more 
Than  them,  their  truth  and  purity, 
Their  loving  soul  of  piety, 
That  more  than  them  we  might  love  Thee ! 
And  thus  their  loss,  by  drawing  us  above. 

Will  make  us  holier,  heavenlier  than  before. 


POEMS.  1 1 

Ah  !  truest  sorrow  is  not  wretchedness  ! — 

To  be  cut  loose  from  all  that  is  divine — 
To  be  denied  the  lasting  blessedness 

Of  saying  to  the  godlike — ''Thou  art  mine  !  " 
This — this  is  misery,  and  blank  despair ! 

But  tender  longings,  tears  of  sad  regret 
Are  pledges  sweet  that  we  but  parted  are, 

And  that  our  souls  and  lives  shall  mingle  yet. 
For  pain  is  but  the  straining  of  the  tie 

That  doth  our  hearts  to  their  fond  idols  bind ; 

That  broken — we  were  without  sense  or  mind 
Of  love  or  life  to  all  eternity. 
But  no  !  it  lives,  and  by  it  we  do  live. 

And  with  their  spirits  hold  communion  dear 
And  still  like  drooping  flowers  our  hearts  revive 

Trembling  in  their  own  fragrance  when  they  near, 
And  when  they  think  of  us  we  drop  a  tear. 

And  when  they  hover  round  us  heave  the  sigh, 

Yet  dream  not  'tis  because  they  are  so  nigh 
And  that  it  is  their  light  makes  heaven  appear 

More  bright,  the  earth  more  sweet,  and  us  more  pure, 

Nor  that  it  is  their  love  that  doth  allure 
Us  to  their  Father,  whence  the  beautiful  doth  come, 
And  where  the  beautiful  is  gathered  to  its  home. 


12  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

QUIETLY,  QUIETLY. 

March  28,  1858. 

Quietly,  quietly  shines  the  moon, 

In  the  dreamy,  dreamy  sky, 
And  beautiful  is  the  silent  noon 
Of  her  midnight  reign  on  high. 
Shedding  her  silvery 
Wonderful  witchery 
Over  the  scenery 
Sleeping  below, 
And  to  the  wandering 
Spirit  low  whispering 
Of  the  yet  lingering 
Long,  long  ago. 

Dreamily,  dreamily  smiles  the  moon 

In  the  silent,  silent  sky. 
And  beautiful  is  the  quiet  noon 
Of  her  midnight  reign  on  high. 
In  her  soft  beams  of  white 
Fairy  like  dreams  all  bright 
Floating  on  streams  of  light 

Passing  me  go  ; 
Fairest  and  clearest, 
Hovers  me  nearest 
Dream  of  the  dearest 
Loved  long  ago. 

Silently,  silent  rides  the  moon, 
In  the  quiet,  quiet  sky. 

And  beautiful  is  the  dreamy  noon 
Of  her  midnight  reign  on  high. 


POEMS.  1 3 

Chimes  of  the  distant  bell 
As  on  my  ear  they  swell 
To  my  lone  spirit  tell 

Murmuring  low, 
Of  the  last  farewell  drear 
Of  the  last  kiss  so  dear 
Of  the  last  parting  tear 

Long,  long  ago. 


24  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

A  VALENTINE. 

Feb.  12,  1855. 

Oh !  Why  should  this  wide  Universe 

Through  heaven  and  earth  be  full 
Of  all  that  may  delight  the  eye 

Of  all  that's  beautiful  ? 
Why  should  the  sky  and  starry  heaven 

With  radiant  beauty  glow  ? 
And  why  should  beauty  shine  through  all 

This  loveliness  below — 
And  why  should  man  lay  down  his  heart 

The  Beautiful  before — 
If  beauty  was  not  made  to  love 

To  worship  and  adore  ? 

And  why  has  nature  made  thee  like 

Herself  so  passing  fair 
And  decked  thee  with  her  beauties  all 

Most  charming  and  most  rare  ? 
Why  has  she  ta'en  her  brightest  hues 

Thy  countenance  to  grace 
Stolen  her  heaven  itself  and  placed 

It  beaming  in  thy  face, 
If  not  that  I  should  yield  myself 

To  worship  and  adore 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  gracefulness 

And  love  thee  evermore  ? 

I  love,  oh  yes !  the  beauteous  earth 

I  love  the  glorious  sky, 
Then  blame  me  not  for  loving  more 

Thy  still  more  glorious  eye. 


POEMS.  1 5 

My  heart  with  rapture  glows  whene'er 

Fair  nature's  face  I  see 
Why  blame  its  rapture  when  it  sees 

That  fairer  nature— Thee  ? 
So  long  as  beauty  must  be  loved 

So  long  as  beauty's  thine 
So  long  shall  I  love  thee  and  be 

Thine  own  true  valentine. 


A  FANTASY  OF  IFS. 

If  ever  I  am  free  to  place 

My  heart  where  love's  prelusions  trace 

Fond  dreams  of  what  may  be — 
If  then  thou  still  art  free  to  say 
To  one  who  for  thy  grace  will  pray 

"  Dear  soul,  I  pity  thee !  " — 
If  when  that  prayer  from  me  shall  rise 
Sweet  pity  droppeth  from  thine  eyes, 

What  bliss  will  fall  to  me ! 


1 6  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 


TO  LAURA. 

Like  a  golden  sunbeam  from  the  sky- 
Sparkling  with  living  light; 

Born  out  of  heaven's  own  purity, 
Glowing  with  beauty  bright ; 

Dancing  upon  the  crystal  stream 
Beautifying  the  flower 

Making  the  earth  with  smiles  to  beam 
And  joy  in  beauty's  power — 

Thus,  Laura,  may  thy  whole  life  be 
A  beam  of  heavenly  purity ; 
Thus,  where  it  shall  its  radiance  bring, 
May  good  and  beauty  ever  spring. 

And  as  that  beam,  when  comes  the  night. 

Is  gathered  up  on  high 
And  shines  with  a  diviner  light 

Upon  the  saddened  eye 
Gleaming  in  some  bright  distant  star 

That  smiles  in  heaven  above 
Stealing  into  the  soul  from  far 

A  messenger  of  love — 

Thus,  Laura,  when  the  last  dark  night 
Has  hidden  thee  from  human  sight, 
Mayst  thou  still  shine  a  radiant  gem 
In  heaven  a  starry  diadem. 


POEMS.  1 7 


TO  ANNA. 


Like  a  dewdrop  glistening  goldenly 

In  the  chalice  of  the  rose, 
Born  of  the  sapphire-golden  sea 

Whose  brightness  in  it  glows, 
Causing  the  rose  to  lift  its  head 

In  fresher,  fairer  bloom, 
Bathing  it  with  a  deeper  red 

And  sweetening  its  perfume  ; 

Thus,  Anna,  may  thy  whole  life  be 
A  mirror  of  heaven's  purity ; 
Thus  may  its  truth  and  noble  worth 
With  goodness'  fragrance  gladden  earth. 

And  as  the  drop  mounts  up  at  dawn 

Leaving  the  rose  forlorn. 
Heavenward  by  the  sunbeams  drawn 

On  fairy  fingers  borne. 
And  melts  into  the  halo  round 

The  sun's  all-glorious  brow. 
Or  in  still  fairer  hues  is  found 

In  heaven's  seven-tinted  bow. 

Thus,  Anna,  when  the  dawn  of  day 
Eternal  calls  thy  soul  away. 
May  it  into  that  halo  rise 
Which  crowns  the  Sun  of  Paradise. 


1 8  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

THE  OLD  YEAR. 

1867. 

Old  Year  !     They  tell  me  thou  art  dead ; 
Yestreen  was  heard  thy  dying  groan 
In  the  wailing  of  the  blast, 
And  thy  dying  shudders  passed 
Through  the  forest's  shivering  moan. 
Thy  visage  was  wan  and  worn  they  say, 
And  bent  with  its  burden  of  toils  and  tears 
Thy  trembling  form,  as  it  passed  away 

At  the  toll  of  the  midnight  bell 

To  the  shadowy  land  where  dwell 
The  ghosts  of  the  vanished  years. 

Not  so.  Old  Year!     Full  well  I  know 

Thou  art  not  dead. 
Thou  didst  but  leave  thy  throne — and  not  with  slow 
And  tottering  footsteps,  but  v/ith  stately  tread 
And  kingly  part, and  mien  of  conscious  strength. 
With  joy  that  thou  hadst  done  thy  work  at  length, 

Hadst  finished  all  according  to  the  plan 

Delivered  to  thee  ere  thy  course  began. 
Thou  didst  but  yield  thy  crown — 

The  twelve-gemmed  crown  the  monarch  wears. 
Which  from  of  old  hath  glided  down 

From  head  to  head  of  the  Royal  Line  of  years. 

A  line  of  kings  !     I  see  them  now. 

Uncrowned  but  bright,  immortal,  strong, 

An  awful,  mighty  throng, 
Eternity's  dread  light  upon  each  brow. 

Years  of  thunder  and  might, 

Years  of  silence  and  night; 


POEMS.  1^ 

Years  of  dreary  toil 

When  the  seed  slept  in  the  soil ; 

Years  of  mighty  birth 

When  life  sprang  forth  from  earth 

Years  of  reaping  and  rest, 

Called  of  the  nations  ''Blest;" 

Years  of  vengeance  and  war; 

Years  of  peaceful  cheer ; 

Years  when  heaven  seemed  far ; 

Years  when  God  was  near  ; — 
I  see  them  all  in  glorious  array. 
Ah,  no!    The  years  ne'er  die,  they  ne'er  grow  old; 
They  live  with  God,  they  live  alway. 

They  have  no  ''dim  plutonian  shore" — behold  ! 
They  live  with  us  from  day  to  day, 

They  brood  above  our  busy  life. 

Into  our  cups  they  crush  their  wine, 
Their  glittering  swords  and  armor  shine 

As  still  they  mingle  in  the  strife. 

Lo!  here  they  strike,  and  one  doth  fall: 

Lo !  here  they  aid,  and  one  doth  win : 

Their  potency  is  felt  in  all 

That  moves  without  or  stirs  within. 

Noiselessly,  swiftly,  to  and  fro,  they  move, 

Angels  of  Justice,  ministers  of  Love. 

And  so.  Old  Year,  I  bid  thee  not  farewell, 

Too  soon,  too  soon  it  were  to  part. 
I  learned  but  little  of  what  thou  hadst  to  tell, 

Much  hast  thou  yet,  I  know,  to  teach  my  heart, 
Thy  lessons  were  too  many  and  too  deep. 
And  oft,  alas !  my  soul  was  sunk  in  sleep ; 
Then  come  again,  thy  lesson  to  repeat, 
And  tell  it  p'er,  thy  tale  so  sad  and  sweet. 


20  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Tell  of  the  joy  and  grief, 
The  doubt  and  the  relief. 
The  fear  and  the  release 
The  tempest  and  the  peace, 
The  song  I  tried  to  sing  in  vain. 
The  cross  I  could  nor  bear  nor  throw, 
The  truth  I  sought  in  vain  to  know. 
The  beauty  I  dreamed,  but  could  not  gain, 
The  loss  I  could  but  feel,  nor  feel  aright, 
The  good  I  could  but  see,  nor  see  in  light. 

Come,  tell  it  all  to  me  once  more. 
The  vanished  vision  to  mine  eye  restore. 
The  buried  good  cause  from  its  grave  to  rise 
With  light  immortal  in  its  eyes. 
With  strength  celestial  in  its  heart. 
Or  if  this  can  not  be. 
Still  be  thou  at  my  side  to  help  me  see 
The  way  of  life,  to  choose  the  better  part, 
And  of  the  coming  years  much  more  to  learn. 
In  benedictions  let  thy  prayers  return. 
In  wisdom  let  thy  counsels  reappear. 
And  in  a  nobler  life  thy  gifts  to  me. 
And  so  I  will  not  say  farewell,  Old  Year, 
One  hand  I  give  to  the  coming  bright  New  Year, 
But  the  other  hand,  Old  Year,  is  still  for  thee. 


POEMS.  2 1 


ANNO  DOMINI. 


Lord  of  the  years,  O  Christ,  art  Thou  ; 
Thou  art  their  source,  their  Hfe,  their  end 
Each  with  Thy  message  Thou  dost  send ; 

Each  wears  Thy  signet  on  his  brow. 


II. 


The  years  upon  Thy  service  came 

Ere  Thou  in  servant-form  wast  found ; 
Each  wrought  Thy  will,  although  uncrowned 

As  yet  with  Thine  all-hallowing  Name. 


III. 


Each  bore  its  prophecy  of  Thee, 
And  sang  it  to  the  morning-star ; 
They  saw  with  gladness,  from  afar, 

Thy  day,  Annorum  Domine  t 


IV. 


The  Star  shines  forth  in  Bethlehem's  sky ; 
The  Song  comes  back  in  Peace  on  Earth 
And  with  the  day  of  Jesus'  birth 

Is  born  the  ANNUS  DOMINI. 


V. 


Henceforth  on  every  year  shall  shine 
This  lordly  diadem,  Thy  Name: 
And  by  this  title  Thou  shalt  claim 

The  fulness  of  the  times  as  Thine. 


22  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

VI. 

So  shall  earth's  history  for  aye 

Bear  witness  to  the  King  of  Kings, 
Who  by  His  Incarnation  brings 

The  New  Creation's  endless  day. 

vn. 

Each  time  of  sorrow,  and  of  joy, 

The  birth,  the  death,  the  bridal  hour, 
Each  wondrous  change,  each  deed  of  power, 

Shall  be  In  Anno  Domini. 

VIII. 

The  truth,  which  thrills  with  life  divine 
The  growth  of  ages,  is  Thy  thought ; 
The  love,  which  miracles  hath  wrought, 

Which  conquers  life  and  death,  is  Thine. 

IX. 

The  Alpha  and  Omega  Thou  ! 
Of  all  life's  mysteries  the  key : 
Our  years  shall  find  their  rest  in  Thee ; 

Thou  leadest  us,  we  know  not  how. 

X. 

Domine  Anni !    Let  Thine  eye 

Beam  love  on  this  New  Year,  we  pray; 
Thy  holy  touch  upon  it  lay. 

And  seal  our  annus  Domini. 


POEMS. 


23 


THE  SHADOWS. 

The  moon  was  rising  yellow  and  round 

And  pouring  her  golden  flood  ; 
The  shadows  lay  long  and  still  on  the  ground, 

And  stretched  far  into  the  wood: 
When  the  King  of  the  Fairies  awoke  as  he  lay 

On  a  rose  of  damask  red 
Where  he  had  been  dreaming  the  livelong  day 

And  he  peeped  from  out  of  his  bed ; 
No  breeze  was  stirring  in  bush  or  tree 

No  shadow  was  moving  in  sight ; 
And— ''Surely  the  shadows  are  sleeping,"  quoth  he, 

''The  shadows  are  sleeping  to-night." 

But  a  shadow  ere  long  did  gently  creep 

Between  the  rose  and  the  moon 
''So-ho,"  quoth  he,    '♦  they're  not  all  asleep,'* 

And  another  came  gliding  soon, 
And  quickly  the  shadows  were  side  by  side, 

And  face  did  lean  to  face, 
Till  each  in  the  other  itself  did  hide. 

And  they  met  in  one  embrace. 
Amazed  was  the  Fairy-King  to  see 

Two  shadows  in  one  unite  ; 
And—  ''  Surely  the  shadows  are  meeting,"  quoth  he, 

''The  shadows  are  meeting  to-night." 

And  from  the  one  Shadow  two  Voices  were  heard 

In  close  and  loving  commune ; 
And  the  heart  of  the  rose  was  sweetly  stirred 

And  trembled  beneath  the  moon. 


24  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

The  one  was  deep  in  its  murmurous  flow 

Like  waters  falling  afar, 
The  other  was  soft  and  gentle  and  low 

Like  the  cadence  of  a  star : 
And  the  magic  web  of  their  harmony 

Held  the  King  in  a  trance  of  delight, 
And —  "  Surely  the  shadows  are  talking,"  quoth  he, 

**The  shadows  are  talking  to-night." 

But  anon  the  murmur  of  voices  was  stilled 

To  a  holy  secresy, 
When  the  heart  of  the  rose  was  suddenly  thrilled 

With  a  shock  of  ecstasy ; 
It  quivered  with  joy,  and  at  once  a  gush 

Of  perfume  swam  in  the  air. 
And  it  burned  and  glowed  with  a  deeper  blush, 

As  THE  SHADOW  left  it  there. 
The  Fairy-King  clapped  his  hands  in  glee, 

And  laughing  he  took  his  flight: 
"  Ha-ha!  the  Shadows  are  kissing,"  quoth  he, 

''The  Shadows  are  kissing  to-night." 


POEMS.  25 


SONNET. 

In  yon  high  heaven  there  reigns  a  queenly  star, 

I  cannot  pluck  it  hence  and  make  it  mine 

Nor  claim  the  beauteous  grace  which  there  doth  shine ; 

I  can  but  gaze  and  worship  from  afar, 

Yet  by  its  beams  what  thrills  magnetic  are 

Within  me  stirred.     The  radiance  divine 

Finds  in  my  deepest  self  a  loving  shrine 

For  its  fair  image,  which  no  change  can  mar. 

And  so  the  twain — my  Star  upon  her  throne, 

Her  image  in  my  heart — their  vigils  keep, 

So  far  apart  yet  mystically  near. 

Speechless  yet  ever  in  communion  deep 

Loyal  to  all  that  Duty  holds  most  dear. 

Nought  asking  save  what  Heaven  may  give  and  own. 


26  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

SONG. 
1854. 

"Thy  tempting  lip  and  roguish  een, 
By  heaven  and  earth,  I  love  thee." — Burns. 

Oh !  a  tempting  lip  and  a  roguish  eye 

Give  me,  give  me ; 
You  need  not  ask,   I  can't  tell  why, 

Yet  give  them  me. 
A  tempting  lip  makes  my  bosom  smart, 
And  a  roguish  eye  steals  away  my  heart. 

Yet  give  them  me — 

Oh  !  give  them  me. 

Oh !  a  tempting  lip  on  a  bright,  sweet  face 

Give  me,  give  me ; 
An  eye  alive  with  a  roguish  grace 

Give  me,  give  me; 
A  lip  like  summer's  burning  glow, 
An  eye  like  morning's  beaming  brow, 

Give  me,  give  me — 

Oh  I  give,  give  me. 

Two  lips  through  which  the  soft  sigh  steals 

Give  me,  give  me; 
And  merry  music-laughter  peals, 

Give  me,  give  me; 
Two  eyes  like  stars  in  heaven  above, 
Twin  stars  that  look  undying  love, 

Give  me,  give  me — 

Oh !  give,  give  me. 

Lips  tempting  for  the  eye  to  see 
Give  me,  give  me; 


POEMS.  27 

Rich  fruit  hanging  on  the  sweet  Love-tree 

Give  me,  give  me; 
Red  and  warm  with  the  glowing  wine 
Of  passion  which  through  them  doth  shine, 
Lips  bewitching  and  tempting  mine, 

Give  me,  give  me — 

Oh !  give,  give  me. 

A  roguish  Hp  and  a  laughing  eye 

Give  me,  give  me ; 
A  merry,  sparkhng,  loving  eye 

Give  me,  give  me ; 
An  eye  through  which  the  soft  soul  peeps, 
An  eye  in  which  the  blue  heaven  sleeps, 

Give  me,  give  me — 

Oh!  give,  give  me. 

Says  one:   '*Two  cheeks  like  roses  seen 

Give  me,  give  me." 
But  a  pair  of  rosy  lips  between 

Give  me,  give  me. 
Give  some  a  pale  and  saintly  brow; 
But  a  cunning,  wicked  eye  below. 

Give  me,  give  me — 

Oh !  give,  give  me. 

Oh !  a  roguish  eye  is  brightness*  self — 

Oh !  give  it  me ; 
And  a  tempting  lip  is  sweetness'  self — 

Oh !  give  it  me. 
Sweet  eyes  that  shower  heavenly  blisses. 
Sweet  lips  that  grow  ambrosial  kisses. 

Give  me,  give  me — 

Oh!  give,  give  me. 


28  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Ah !  those  full  lips  so  tempting  sweet 

I  see,  I  see ; 
Those  eyes  where  love  and  beauty  meet 

I  see,  I  see. 
Eliza,  those  sweet  eyes  are  thine; 
Through  them  in  pity  on  me  shine. 
Those  tempting  lips,  oh !  join  to  mine ; 

Kiss  me,  kiss  me — 

Oh!  kiss,  kiss  me. 


POEMS.  29 


PARTING  SONG. 

Once  again 

Breathe  the  strain ! 
Sisters !  'tis  the  Parting  Song, 

On  each  heart 

As  we  part 
Rests  the  tender,  moving  spell. 

In  each  soul 

As  they  roll 
Will  the  echoes  linger  long. 

Deeper  still, 

Longer  will 
Love's  sweet  benedictions  dwell. 

Sweet,  sisters,  are  the  ties  which  in  golden  union 
bind  us; 
Sweetly  bitter  is  the  pain 
Of  the  parting's  cruel  strain. 
Dear  to  memory  the  scenes  which  to-day  we  leave 
behind  us. 
Tears  of  grief  the  eyes  bedew 
As  we  sob  our  last  adieu. 

Yet,  although  the  ties  be  strained,  are  they  not  by 
absence  broken  : 
Parting  doth  affection  try, 
Trial  love  doth  purify ; 
Pensive  thoughts  and  yearnings  all  too  sacred  to  be 
spoken, 
These  are  friendship's  guarantee 
Of  its  immortality. 


30  LLEWELYN    lOAN   EVANS. 

Wide  is  the  realm  of  love,   yet  'tis  one  and  here 
forever : 
God's  throne  is  everywhere ; 
All  are  near  who  meet  in  prayer. 
Them  who  love  and  toil  and  pray  for  each  other 
nought  can  sever. 
Love  knows  no  near  and  far, 
Prayer  knows  no  inter-bar. 
Then  when  the  tear  doth  flow,  let  the  smile-beam 
make  it  brighter; 
And  when  the  parting  word 
From  faltering  lips  is  heard. 
Let  the  tones  of  faith  and  hope  sounding  in  it  make 
it  lighter. 

Life,  sisters,   is  God's  school;  living  well  is  ever 
learning, 
Ever  climbing  nobler  heights, 
Ever  storing  new  delights ; 
Finding  in  each  cross  a  crown,  and  a  heaven  in 
every  yearning, 
Wisdom  here,  and  courage  there, 
And  a  blessing  everywhere. 
Life  is  growth  by  work  and  rest,  gaining  wealth  by 
joy  and  sorrow. 

'Tis  to  lose,  and  find  yet  more 
In  God  than  e'er  we  had  before ; 
Tis  to  part  to-day,  and  then  to  meet  yet  closer  on 
the  morrow. 
Welcome  Duty,  rest  and  strife ; 
God  is  calling  us  to  life. 


POEMS.  i  I 

IN  MEMORIAM.* 

Earth  needs  the  strong. 
This  poor  weak  earth — it  needs  the  arm  of  might, 
To  hold  aloft  God's  standard  in  the  fight, 
The  shield  of  faith,  the  sword  of  truth  to  wield, 
To  smite  the  foe  and  drive  him  from  the  field. 
It  needs  the  nerve  of  iron  for  the  wear 
Of  toil  and  tears ;  the  back  of  steel,  to  bear 
For  many  a  stumbhng,  falling  one,  his  load. 
And  help  the  pilgrim  on  his  weary  road. 

To  do  God's  work,  earth  needs  the  strong. 

Earth  needs  the  wise. 
This  poor  dark  world,  it  needs  the  soul  of  light 
To  bring  some  gleam  of  heaven  into  its  night. 
The  loving  learner — from  the  Master's  feet 
To  bear  to  erring  men  His  wisdom  sweet : 
To  make  the  crooked  straight;  the  clouded  clear; 
The  narrow  broad  ;  to  bring  the  far-off  near, 
To  master  nature,  and  to  build  the  mind 
And  for  a  world  gone  wrong  the  best  to  find. 

To  teach  God's  thought,  earth  needs  the  wise. 

Earth  needs  the  true. 
The  soul  whose  loyal  purpose  is  its  king, 
Whose  every  thought  like  solid  gold  doth  ring, 
Whose  diamond  purity  shows  not  a  flaw, 
Whose  liberty  exults  in  serving  law, 
Which  knows  no  yoke  of  servile  hope  or  fear, 
In  which  no  sordid  greed  doth  e'er  appear, 
Which  is  not  warped  by  vanity  or  pride 
Which  loving  God,  seeks  no  reward  beside. 

To  show  God's  mind,  earth  needs  the  true. 


*  Read  after  the'  death  of  a  friend,  Col.  S.  S.  Fisher. 


32  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Earth  needs  the  brave. 
The  soul  which  pities  cowards  [danger  scorns], 
Whose  crown  of  glory  is  the  crown  of  thorns, 
Which  dares  to  do  for  Right  what  seems  but  vain, 
Which  dares  to  lose  for  self  that  Truth  may  gain, 
The  chivalry  which  knows  nor  high  nor  low. 
With  equal  gladness  to  each  task  doth  go  ; 
The  heart  which  ever  sings  in  love's  employ, 
The  courage  which  makes  life  one  smile  of  joy. 

To  bring  God's  day,  earth  needs  the  brave. 

And  such  was  he 
The  shadow  of  whose  loss  doth  on  us  rest, 
In  courage,  knowledge,  truth  and  strength,  confessed 
A  leader  among  men.     Did  not  our  earth 
Have  need  of  all  that  gave  his  life  such  worth? 
That  helpful  power,  that  genial  grace,  that  skill 
Of  hand  and  tongue  and  brain ;  that  self-poised  will 
That  heart  so  broad  it  knew  no  far  or  near, 
Strong  as  the  oak,  yet  gentle  as  the  tear; 

Strong,  gentle,  wise  and  true — yes,  such  was  he. 

And  such  is  he. 
In  sphere  of  wider  action,  broader  scope 
Of  thought  and  vision,  loftier  flights  of  hope. 
Of  fuller-souled  endeavor,  mightier  faith, 
Of  love  which  has  outsoared  the  chill  of  death. 
Heaven,  too,  needs  strength  and  wisdom,  truth  and  love: 
Nothing  is  lost  that  God  doth  call  above ; 
No  grace  or  power  of  soul  but  there  hath  birth 
To  larger  use  and  glory  than  on  earth. 
Yes  —  ever  strong,  wise,  loving,  true,  is  he 
Ever  more  strong,  wise,  loving,  true,  shall  be. 

Gloria  tibi  Doniinel 


ESSAYS  AND  ADDRESSES. 


I. 

PROVIDENCE  IN  THE  GREEK  DRAMA. 

The  most  important  speculative  and  practical  ques- 
tion of  the  day  is  undoubtedly  that  which  concerns  the 
active  relations  of  God  to  the  world  which  he  has  cre- 
ated. What  is  it  that  rules  the  world  ?  Is  it  law  ?  Is 
it  fate?  Is  it  God?  I  have  thought  it  might  not  be 
without  interest  or  profit  to  hear  what  one  of  the  most 
eloquent  voices  of  the  past  has  to  say  on  this  great 
theme — the  voice  of  the  Greek  Drama. 

Nowhere  in  the  absence  of  Divine  Revelation  has  the 
mind  grappled  so  successfully  with  the  material  prob- 
lems of  existence ;  nowhere  has  it  given  birth  to  such 
sublime  thoughts  and  such  marvelous  systems  of  spec- 
ulation ;  nowhere  has  it  invested  its  conceptions  of  spir- 
itual facts  and  superhuman  personalities  with  such  noble 
and  beautiful  forms;  nowhere  has  it  given  such  elo- 
quent and  feeling  utterance  to  the  profounder  experi- 
ences of  humanity  yearning  after  life  and  truth  and 
God,  as  in  the  philosophy,  the  poetry,  the  art,  the  re- 
ligion of  Ancient  Greece.  And  nothing  is  more  char- 
acteristic of  Greece,  nothing  is  more  expressive  of  its 
best  and  its  highest,  than  its  drama. 

That  we  may  'the  better  understand  what  the  Greek 

(33) 


34  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Drama  has  to  say  on  the  theme  before  us,  let  us  take 
a  rapid  survey  of  Greek  thought  concerning  it  before 
the  drama  began  to  preach.  Recent  researches  have 
brought  to  Hght  such  analogies  between  the  first  inhab- 
itants of  Greece  and  the  Aryan  nationalities  which  set- 
tled on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges  and  of  the  Euphrates, 
as  justify  us  in  assuming  their  common  origin,  and  the 
original  identity  of  their  religion.  The  primitive  wor- 
ship of  the  Pelasgians,  the  original  Hellenic  population 
of  Greece  was,  like  that  of  the  early  Indians  and  Per- 
sians, the  simple  deification  of  nature.  Zeus  is  the 
Greek  Indra,  the  deified  sky,  armed  with  the  thunder 
and  lightning,  dwelling  on  the  mountain  top3,  driving 
the  clouds,  gathering  the  rain,  filling  the  fountains  in  the 
valleys.  He  is  opposed  by  the  Titans,  the  spirits  of 
darkness,  the  primitive  deities,  ''the  first-born  of  all 
shaped  and  palpable  gods,"  as  Keats  calls  them,  whose 
rule  succeeded  that  of  absolute  darkness,  and  who  are 
ever  struggling  to  regain  their  ascendency.  Apollo,  the 
bright  luminous  god  (^o?/9oc,  became  after  a  time  the 
favorite  divinity  of  the  Greeks,  who  were  pre-eminently 
in  a  physical  sense  "  children  of  the  light."  "  It  is  a 
characteristic  of  the  Greek  temper,"  says  Bulwer,  ''that 
the  personages  of  Greek  poetry  ever  bid  a  last  lingering 
and  half  reluctant  farewell  to  the  sun.  There  is  a  mag- 
nificent fullness  in  those  children  of  beautiful  Hellas ; 
the  sun  is  to  them  as  a  familiar  friend.  The  affliction  or 
the  terror  of  Hades  is  in  the  thought  that  its  fields  are 
sunless. "  And  so  we  find  that  when  Anaxagoras  declared 
that  the  sun  is  a  mass  of  red-hot  iron,  his  doctrine  was 
rejected  with  horror  and  he  was  reprobated  as  an  athe- 
ist (Mr.  Procter  would  not  have  found  it  pleasant  lect- 
uring to  the  Athenians  on  the  sun).  Other  personifica- 
tions of  nature  worshipped  by  the  Greeks  we  find  in 
Demeter,   representing  with  her  daughter  Persephone, 


PROVIDENCE    IN   THE    GREEK    DRAMA.  35 

the  fructifying  power  of  the  earth ;  Poseidon,  the  fertil- 
izing power  of  water  ;  Dionysos,  the  productive,  over- 
flowing, and  intoxicating  power  of  nature  ;  Hephaestos, 
the  volcanic  forces  of  the  earth,  and  fire  as  an  indus- 
trial element.  And  so  the  process  went  on  until  in  the 
end  this  poetical  faith  had  peopled  every  kingdom  and 
province  and  nook  of  nature  with  divinities,  with 

"  The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets 
The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion 
The  power,  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty 
That  had  their  haunts  in  dale  or  piney  mountain, 
Or  forest,  by  slow  stream  or  pebbly  spring. 
Spirits  or  gods  that  used  to  share  this  earth 
With  man  as  with  their  friend." 

It  was  inevitable,  however,  that  In  Greece  this  sim- 
ple nature-worship  should  undergo  a  development.  In 
the  Orient,  in  India  especially  with  its  tropical  heat, 
its  overpowering  vastn esses,  its  lazy  monotony,  its  un- 
changeable uniformity  it  had  become  Pantheism  — 
"sometimes  monstrous,  sometimes  grand,  but  always 
fatalistic."  Not  so,  however,  in  Greece.  In  India 
nature  triumphs  over  man.  Man  is  crushed  into  help- 
lessness before  her  tremendous  energies.  In  Greece 
''men  had  learned  of  their  fathers;"  in  the  language 
of  Thucydides,  "that  they  must  pay  the  price  of  labor 
and  effort  in  order  to  obtain  any  advantages  ;  "  and  there 
they  became  victorious  over  nature.  In  the  East  was 
seclusion  and  changelessness.  Greece  was  situated  at 
the  confluence  of  East  and  West,  "a  small  many- 
toothed  peninsula  (as  Dr.  Schaff  describes  it),  inserted 
by  Providence  in  the  midst  of  the  three  divisions  of  the 
Old  World,  to  educate  and  refine  them."  In  the  im- 
mense plains  of  Asia,  vast  monarchies  sprang  up.  In 
which  the  individual  is  lost,  and  there  Unity  reigned 
supreme.      Greece  was  filled  with  states,  commercial 


36  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

communities,  republics,  and  oligarchies,  and  there  we 
find  variety,  movement,  strife,  liberty,  individuality. 
"Even  the  fabulous  world  of  Grecian  divinities,"  says 
Schlegel,  ' '  has  a  republican  cast,  for  there  everything 
is  in  a  state  of  change,  of  successive  renovation  and  of 
mutual  collision,  in  the  war  of  nature's  elements,  in  the 
hostilities  of  old  and  new  deities,  of  the  superior  and 
inferior  gods,  of  giants  and  of  heroes — presenting,  as  it 
does,  a  sort  of  poetical  anarchy." 

Hence,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the  East,  Pantheism;  in 
the  West,  Humanism ;  and  in  Persia,  by  the  way,  in- 
termediate between  the  two,  Dualism.  In  India  we 
see  Fatalism,  the  reign  of  absolute  inexorable  law,  by 
which  man  is  enslaved.  In  Persia  we  see  an  at- 
tempt, although  finally  unsuccessful,  to  escape  from 
Fatalism  by  the  recognition  of  two  antagonistic  prin- 
ciples. In  Greece,  as  De  Pressense  says,  "man,  for 
the  first  time  in  Paganism,  arrived  at  the  consciousness 
of  his  individuality,  of  his  moral  value  as  a  free  being." 
The  character  of  the  religious  development  of  Greece 
accordingly  defines  itself  thus :  it  was  essentially  hu- 
manistic, resulting,  on  the  one  hand,  in  the  humanizing 
of  the  Deity,  and  on  the  other  hand  in  the  apotheosis 
of  humanity.  The  foundations  of  this  humanism  were 
laid  in  the  Heroic  Age  of  Greece,  embracing:  (i)  The 
period  of  legendary  heroism,  when  the  struggle  between 
the  primitive  barbarism  and  the  nascent  civilization  of 
Greece  was  carried  on,  and  (2)  The  period  of  historical 
heroism,  culminating  in  the  grand  triumph  of  the 
Western  over  the  Oriental  types  of  civiHzation — "that 
historical  Iliad  almost  as  grand  as  the  other,  which,  as 
it  has  been  said,  Miltiades  and  Themistocles  inscribed 
with  their  swords." 

The  features  of  this  humanism  are  given  us  in  the 
poetry  of  Greece  especially  in  that  of  Homer,  that  in- 


PROVIDENCE  IN  THE  GREEK  DRAMA.        37 

imitable  poet  who,  as  some  one  has  said,  ''created  in 
the  same  breath  the  poetry  and  the  rehgion  of  his 
country."  Olympus  becomes  now  an  ideal  Greece. 
Zeus  is  no  longer  the  sun-god  but  a  great  king,  the 
father  of  gods  and  men.  Apollo  is  the  personification 
of  the  national  spirit  and  genius,  the  god  of  song,  music, 
inspiration,  and  retribution  ;  Athena,  of  state  policy ; 
Hermes,  ^of  eloquence,  commerce,  invention ;  besides 
Aphrodite,  Poseidon,  Ares,  Artemis  and  the  rest,  on 
which  I  need  not  enlarge.  The  genuinely  anthropomor- 
phic character  of  this  theology,  which  it  behoves  us 
here  to  note,  may  be  seen  in  the  family  relations  of 
Zeus.  His  wife  Hera,  as  is  well  known,  made  things 
lively  enough  for  him.  Their  family  jars  shook  all 
Olympus,  and  often  embroiled  the  other  gods.  Her 
temper  was  far  from  being  the  sweetest,  although  to  be 
sure  she  had  cause  enough  to  complain,  and  the  Thun- 
derer himself  did  not  feel  altogether  comfortable  when 
her  tongue  began  to  go.  Sometimes  he  was  brute 
enough  to  beat  his  wife,  and  one  day  he  went  so  far  as 
to  hang  her  up  in  the  clouds,  her  hands  chained  and 
two  anvils  suspended  from  her  feet.  Thus  it  was  that, 
in  poetry  at  least,  these  old  Greeks  would  conceive  of 
their  gods  as  being  altogether  such  as  themselves.  The 
gods  of  the  Homeric  pantheon  are  simply  men  of  larger 
mould,  of  mightier  energies  whether  for  good  or  for 
evil,  of  intenser  passions.  Their  history  is  the  projec- 
tion on  an  earthly  background,  and  in  magnified  pro- 
portions, of  human  history.  They  are  not  wanting  in 
divine  grandeur,  for  on  the  one  side  man  touches  God : 
but  they  have  also  much  earthly  weakness  and  gross- 
ness,  for  on  the  other  side  man  touches  the  beast. 

Besides  this  Homeric  Pantheon,  by  far  the  most  pop- 
ular and  potent,  we  find  the  Hesiodic  Pantheon,  and 
the  Orphic.     We  cannot  stop  to  consider  them.    Hesiod 


38  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

loved  the  old  nature-gods.  He  sympathized  with  the 
Titans.  He  mourns  that  he  was  born  in  the  hard  age  of 
iron.  His  theogony  is  a  cosmogony,  and  he  is  thus 
the  poet  of  the  philosophers,  at  the  same  time  that  he 
is  also  the  poet  of  the  peasantry ;  whereas  Homer  is  the 
poet  of  the  soldier  and  politician.  His  poetry  is  also  to 
a  considerable  extent  the  protest  of  the  moral  nature 
against  the  immoralities  and  weaknesses  to  which  the 
heartier  humanism  of  the  Homeric  mythology  con- 
ducted. The  wife  of  Zeus  is  not  Hera,  but  first  Metis, 
or  Mind,  and  then  Themis,  or  Law,  by  whom  he  be- 
comes the  father  of  the  Fates.  Justice,  he  says,  "al- 
ways ends  in  being  triumphant  in  human  affairs,  and  if 
her  way  is  steep,  if  the  gods  have  placed  sweat  and 
pain  in  the  path  of  virtue,  the  road  grows  easier  along 
the  height."  In  Pindar  —  with  considerable  progress  of 
the  moral  idea  —  the  heroic  ideal  looms  upon  us,  in  his 
own  language,  "a  divinity  that  the  people  should  wor- 
ship." Zeus  is  with  him  a  just  wise  God.  The  misery 
of  human  life  comes  from  pride,  but  **a  god,"  he  says, 
"is  in  all  our  joys.  " 

Of  the  Orphic  Theogony,  which  is  to  me  exceedingly 
fascinating,  I  cannot  now  stop  to  speak,  except  to  say 
that  it  is  distinguished  from  the  others  of  which  we 
have  spoken,  by  a  greater  infusion  of  mysticism  and  of 
pantheism  ;  by  the  more  definite  recognition  of  a  Divine 
Creative  or  rather  plastic  power;  by  the  reconciliation 
of  the  gods  ;  by  a  more  hopeful  view  of  the  future  ;  and 
especially  by  the  worship  of  Dionysos,  the  benefactor 
of  men,  the  suffering  divinity,  the  liberator  of  souls.  But 
I  cannot  leave  it  without  snatching  this  exquisite  gem 
of  thought  from  an  address  to  Eros:  "Thy  tears  are 
the  hapless  race  of  men ;  by  thy  laugh  thou  hast  raised 
up  the  sacred  race  of  the  gods." 

The  gods  that  we  have  been  thus  far  considering  were 


PROVIDENCE  IN  THE  GREEK  DRAMA.         39 

originally  personifications  of  nature.  But  these  per- 
sonifications, as  we  have  seen,  were  gradually  invested 
more  and  more  with  human  attributes,  until  their  orig- 
inal significance  was  almost  and  in  some  cases  entirely 
lost  sight  of.  The  divine  was  more  and  more  absorbed 
in  the  heroic.  From  this  point  the  transition  was  easy 
and  unavoidable-to  the  immediate  deification  of  heroes — 
which  brings  us  to  a  third  series  of  gods  in  Greek  my- 
thology. The  first  had  consisted  of  personifications  of 
nature  :  the  second  of  these  same  personifications  hu- 
manized :  the  third  consisted  of  deified  heroes.  Of  this 
class  the  most  distinguished  example  is  Heracles  —  the 
ideal  of  a  generous  suffering  and  victorious  hero.  "The 
fundamental  idea  of  all  heroic  mythology  "  says  Miiller 
(Ancient  Dorians)  may  be  pronounced  to  be  a  proud 
consciousness  of  power  innate  in  man,  by  which  he  en- 
deavors to  place  himself  on  a  level  with  the  gods,  not 
through  the  influence  of  a  mild  and  benign  destiny,  but 
by  labor,  misery  and  combats.  **The  highest  degree  of 
human  suffering  and  courage  is  attributed  to  Heracles; 
his  character  is  as  noble  as  could  be  conceived  in  those 
rude  and  early  times,  but  he  is  by  no  means  represented 
as  free  from  the  blemishes  of  human  nature.  On  the 
contrary,  he  is  frequently  subject  to  wild  ungovernable 
passions,  when  the  noble  indignation  and  anger  of  the 
suffering  hero  degenerate  into  frenzy.  Every  crime  how- 
ever is  atoned  for  by  some  new  suffering,  but  nothing 
breaks  his  invincible  courage,  until,  purified  from  earth- 
ly corruption  he  ascends  Mt.  Olympus,  and  there  re- 
ceives the  beauteous  Hebe  for  his  bride,  while  his  shade 
threatens  the  frightened  gods  in  Hades.  As  in  the  fable 
of  Apollo,  the  godhead  descends  into  human  life,  so  in 
Heracles,  a  purely  human  power  is  elevated  to  the  gods. 
He  is  a  deity  representing  the  highest  perfection  of  hu- 
manity, and  therefore  the  model  and  aim  of  human  imi- 


40  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

tation.  And  the  summit  of  heroic  energy  was  seen 
where  the  human  passed  into  the  divine  nature. 

Such  then  is  the  twofold  result  of  the  Greek  human- 
ism :  the  humanizing  of  the  Deity,  the  apotheosis  of 
humanity.  In  the  Pantheon  of  the  Iliad  and  the  Odys- 
sey we  recognize  the  gods  brought  down  to  men ;  in 
Heracles,  ^sculapius  and  the  later  hero-gods  we  see 
men  raised  up  to  gods.  First,  the  gods  come  down  to 
Olympus  and  become  human ;  then  men  scale  Olympus 
and  become  divine.  We  are  now  prepared  to  consider 
the  teachings  of  the  Greek  Drama  on  the  subject  before 
us. 

The  complete  emancipation  of  man  from  the  religion 
of  nature  in  Greece  is  seen  in  the  development  of  the 
drama.  Dramatic  poetry  is  possible  only  where  there 
is  the  consciousness  of  freedom,  the  interaction  and 
counteraction  of  moral  forces  and  laws,  the  sense  of 
responsibility  and  guilt,  the  apprehension  of  a  moral 
government,  of  Providence  and  will,  of  conscience,  of 
Law,  of  Nemesis.  It  is  just  what  we  should  expect, 
therefore,  that  in  Greece,  where  the  triumph  of  man 
over  nature  carried  with  it  such  a  development  of  free- 
dom and  individuality,  the  drama  should  become  a 
most  flourishing  and  popular  institution.  To  be  sure, 
the  consciousness  of  perfect  moral  liberty  is  not  at- 
tained even  here.  Indeed  the  fatalism  which  broods 
over  some  of  these  dramas  is  painful ;  but  this  is  the 
nearest  approach  to  such  a  conception  that  we  meet 
with  in  heathendom.  The  pathos  of  these  wonderful 
poems  results  from  the  contrast  which  they  set  forth 
between  "the  grandeur  of  man  and  the  wretchedness 
of  his  destiny."  But  that  misery  is  ever  the  fruit  of 
crime.  The  Curse  which  haunts  the  family  or  the  in- 
dividual has  sprung  out  of  the  blood  of  an  injured  di- 
vinity, of  violated  law.     To  the  Greek  the  drama  was 


PROVIDENCE    IN   THE  GREEK    DRAMA.  4 1 

a  great  preacher  of  righteousness.  The  stage  was  m 
some  sense  a  pulpit.  In  Tragedy  especially  did  Greek 
genius  give  conscience  its  grandest  voice,  and  pour 
forth  its  loftiest  utterances  while  treating  "of  fate  and 
chance  and  change  in  human  life."  "  Greek  Tragedy/' 
says  Professor  Tyler,  ' '  is  essentially  didactic,  ethical, 
mythological,  religious.  It  was  the  express  office  of 
the  chorus,  which  held  the  most  prominent  place  in  the 
ancient  drama,  to  interpret  the  mysteries  of  Providence, 
to  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men,  to  plead  the  cause 
of  truth,  virtue  and  piety.  Hence  it  was  composed  usu- 
ally of  aged  men  whose  wisdom  was  fitted  to  instruct 
in  the  true  and  the  right,  or  of  young  women  whose 
virgin  purity  would  instinctively  shrink  from  falsehood 

and  wrong The  characters  are  heroes  and 

demigods ;  monsters,  it  may  be,  in  crime ;  but  their 
punishment  is  equally  prodigious.  Sin  and  suffering 
always  go  together.  They  illustrate  by  their  lips  and 
in  their  lives  the  provident  and  retributive  justice  of 
God." 

It  is  evident  at  once  that  in  the  very  act  of  putting 
the  gods  upon  the  stage  was  involved  the  necessity  of 
investing  them  with  those  human  passions,  sympathies 
and  activities  for  which  the  stage  was  designed ;  and 
that  the  Greek  Drama  in  this  way  strongly  confirmed 
the  anthropomorphic  tendencies  of  its  theology.  There 
is  indeed  one  prominent  exception  to  this  dramatic  rep- 
resentation of  divinity.  Zeus  is  never  put  on  the  stage. 
He  is  always  the  unseen  and  invisible  god.  Indeed  the 
myth  of  Zeus  and  Semele  teaches  that  no  mortal  could 
behold  Zeus  and  live.  For  as  you  remember,  when 
Semele,  at  the  instigation  of  Hera,  requested  him  to 
appear  to  her  as  he  did  to  Hera,  and  when  he  so  far 
gratified  her  wish  as  to  appear  to  her  as  the  god  of 
thunder,  Semele.  was  instantly  consumed  by  the  fire  of 


42  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

the  lightning — the  jewel  of  a  noble  truth  in  the  head 
of  a  toad,  as  is  so  often  the  case  in  these  old  myths. 
And  so  with  the  dramatists,  with  ^schylus  particu- 
larly. Zeus  is,  as  Max  Miiller  says,  the  only  real  God 
in  the  higher  sense  of  the  word.  The  Chorus  in  the 
Suppliants  call  him  "King  of  kings,  most  blest  of  the 
blest";  and  again,  "the  Supreme,  who  by  hoary  law 
directs  fate."  Again  ^schylus  (in  Agamemnon)  calls 
him  the  universal  cause — Tzavakcof;.  "Woe!  woe!  'tis 
by  the  will  of  Jove,  cause  of  all,  doer  of  all ;  for  what 
is  accomplished  among  mortals  without  Zeus?  What 
of  these  things  is  not  decreed  by  Heaven?"  In  the 
Antigone  of  Sophocles  the  Chorus  utters  this  subhme 
strain:  "O  Jove!  what  daring  pride  of  mortals  can 
control  this  power,  which  neither  the  sleep  which  leads 
the  universe  to  old  age  ever  seizes,  nor  the  unwearied 
months  of  the  gods?  Through  unwasting  time  en- 
throned in  might,  thou  dwellest  I'n  the  glittering  blaze 
of  heaven ! " 

Closely  connected  with  this  supremacy  of  Zeus  is  the 
doctrine  of  Providence  and  a  Divine  Government. 
"There  is  a  mighty  Jove  in  heaven  who  overlooketh 
and  swayeth  all  things,"  says  the  Chorus  in  Electra. 
"The  tragedies  of  ^schylus "  says  K.  O.  Miiller, 
"uniformly  require  faith  in  a  Divine  power  which 
with  steady  eye  and  firm  hand,  guides  the  course  of 
events  to  the  best  issue,  though  the  paths  through 
which  it  leads  may  be  dark  and  difficult  and  fraught 
with  distress  and  suffering.  The  poetry  of  yEschylus 
is  full  of  profound  and  enthusiastic  glorifications  of 
Zeus  as  this  power."  The  Greek  genius  indeed  is  not 
insensible  to  the  mystery  which  enwraps  the  Divine 
decrees  and  which  broods  over  their  fulfillment.  '  *  The 
counsel  of  Zeus,"  says  the  Chorus  in  the  Suppliants," 
is  not  easily  traced  out,  yet  ni  all  things  it  shines  forth 


PROVIDENCE    IN    THE    GREEK    DRAMA.  43 

even  in  darkness,  with  black  calamity  to  articulate- 
voiced  man.  But  it  falls  firmly  not  upon  its  back  (/.  e. 
is  not  thrown  prostrate)  if  a  thing  be  perfected  by  the 
hand  of  Zeus,  for  the  ways  of  the  divine  breast  stretch 
thick  and  shady,  difficult  to  discover."  Scarcely  less 
sublime  than  the  description  of  Zeus  on  his  throne  are 
the  descriptions,  in  Sophocles  especially,  of  the  divine 
and  eternal  laws  which  rule  the  operations  of  Providence. 
Thus  in  the  Oedipus  Tyrannus  the  Chorus  says:  "■  Oh, 
may  it  be  my  lot  to  support  the  all-sainted  purity  of 
every  word  and  action,  regarding  which  are  propounded 
laws  sublime  engendered  in  the  firmament  of  heaven, 
whose  only  father  is  Olympus;  nor  did  the  perishable 
nature  of  man  give  them  being ;  no,  nor  shall  oblivion 
ever  drown  them  in  sleep.  Great  is  the  diversity  in 
'these,  none  groweth  old."  And  in  Antigone  the 
Chorus  speaks  of  *  *  the  unwritten  and  immovable  laws 
of  the  gods.  For  not  now,  at  least,  or  of  yesterday, 
but  eternally  they  live,  and  no  one  knows  from  what 
time  they  had  their  being." 

In  a  more  general  way,  all  things  are  attributed  to 
the  gods.  Success  is  their  gift.  ''  For  mortals  to 
succeed  is  a  boon  of  deity"  (Eteocles;  Seven  against 
Thebes).  They  protected  him  that  fears  them;  *'A 
dread  adversary  is  he  that  reveres  the  gods."  Occa- 
sionally we  find  something  like  a  recognition  of  special 
providence.  Thus  we  find  in  the  Persians,  the  mes- 
senger who  announced  the  ruin  of  the  Persian  army 
saying:  '*In  this  night  God  called  up  Winter  out 
of  his  season  and  congealed  the  whole  stream  of 
sacred  Strymon."  The  Chorus  in  Agamemnon  ex- 
pressly teaches  that  the  gods  care  for  men,  and  says 
of  one  who  denied  this —  '^not  holy  was  he."  In  har- 
mony with  this  view  of  the  deity,  is  the  view  given  of 
prayer,      -'The    dramas  of  iEschylus,"  says  Professor 


44  LLEWELYN    10 AN    EVANS. 

Tyler,  "are  in  their  whole  structure  and  contents  a 
standing  witness  to  a  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer,  as 
a  general  thing,  notwithstanding  the  fixed  decrees  of 
fate  or  providence.  No  Calvinist  was  ever  a  more 
strenuous  asserter  of  the  '  doctrine  of  the  decrees '  than 
the  Chorus  in  these  dramas.  At  the  same  time,  no 
Methodist  ever  offered  more  frequent  or  more  fervent 
prayers."  Here  is  a  very  remarkable  passage  from  the 
Chorephori:  "That  which  is  foredoomed  abides  from 
the  olden  time,  and  to  those  that  pray  for  it,  it  may 
come." 

The  most  prominent  principle  of  the  Divine  Govern- 
ment set  forth  in  the  Greek  Tragedy  is  the  law  of 
retribution.  I  cannot  stop  to  describe  the  various 
representations  given  of  this  law.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
this  indissoluble  connection  between  sin  and  suffering, 
through  crime  and  punishment,  is  the  grand  argument 
of  every  tragedy.  I  wish,  however,  to  call  attention 
here  to  the  personification  of  moral  ideas  that  we  meet 
with  in  connection  with  this  law.  The  Greek  mind,  as 
has  been  remarked,  was  prone  to  personification.  But 
the  fact  that  we  find  so  many  of  these  moral  personifi- 
cations in  the  Greek  mythology,  especially  in  that  of 
the  drama,  is  of  deep  significance.  For  they  prove  to 
my  mind  conclusively,  that  in  their  conceptions,  the 
gods  did  not  sufficiently  represent  these  moral  forces, 
and  that  there  were  points  at  which  the  gods  and  these 
moral  powers  were  more  or  less  at  variance.  But  in 
themselves  these  personifications  are  highly  interesting. 
Let  me  mention  a  few.  Here  we  have  Order  or  Law 
personified  under  the  name  Themis ;  Justice  under  the 
name  Dike;  the  latter  being  the  daughter  of  the  former. 
With  what  eloquence  does  the  Chorus  again  and  again 
appeal  to  Themis  as  one  of  the  most  venerable  divini- 
ties   of  heaven ;    or   describe   Dike,    now    driving   the 


PROVIDENCE  IN  THE  GREEK  DRAMA.        45 

sword,  sharp  and  bitter,  right  through  the  lungs  of  the 
evil-doer,  now  beaming  in  smoky  cottages  and  honor- 
ing the  holy  life  (see  Agamemnon).  Here  again  we 
meet  with  Ate  —  retribution  personified  ;  and  Nemesis, 
the  goddess  of  distributive  justice,  also  surnamed  Adra- 
stera,  the  Inevitable,  from  whom  there  is  no  escape  ; 
and,  most  terrible  of  all,  the  Furies,  the  personification 
of  the  curses  pronounced  on  guilty  criminals —  "hell- 
hounds," as  Orestes  calls  them,  who  pursue  the 
wretched  man  to  his  doom.  In  the  Prometheus  Bound 
these  are  joined  with  the  Fates  as  the  pilots  of  neces- 
sity, mightier  even  than  Zeus.  And  this  leads  us  to 
the  darker  side  of  our  subject,  on  which  I  must  dwell 
a  moment  before  I  close. 

The  idea  of  Fate  is  sometimes  presented  in  the  Greek 
Tragedy  as  an  impersonal  abstraction.  ''I  needs  must 
bear  my  doom  as  easily  as  may  be,"  says  Prometheus, 
**  knowing,  as  I  do,  that  the  might  of  necessity  can  not 
be  resisted."  And  so  the  Chorus  in  Agamemnon: 
*' Things  are  as  they  are  and  will  be  brought  to  the 
issue  doomed."  But  it  is  more  in  accord  with  the 
habit  of  the  Greeks  to  represent  Fate  or  Destiny  as  a 
person — Alaa  or  Mdcpa.  Homer  usually  speaks  of  only 
one  Moira,  who  at  the  birth  of  man  spins  out  the 
thread  of  his  future  life,  follows  his  steps  and  directs 
the  consequences  of  his  actions,  all  according  to  the 
counsels  of  the  gods.  Hesiod  has  three  Fates,  all 
daughters  of  Zeus  and  Night.  In  Tragedy  we  have 
sometimes  one  and  sometimes  three.  The  Homeric 
Moira  is  not  an  inflexible  fate ;  it  is  the  will  of  Zeus,  or 
at  all  events  it  is  subject  to  his  control,  and  is  so  far 
conditional  as  to  be  influenced  in  a  measure  by  man 
himself  In  Tragedy,  Fate  is,  generally  speaking,  the 
mind  of  Zeus.  "Whatever  is  fated,"  says  the  Chorus 
in  the  Suppliants,   "that  will  take  place;  the  great  im- 


46  Llewelyn  ioan  evans. 

mense  mind  of  Zeus  is  not  to  be  transgressed."  But 
now  and  then  we  see  emerging  that  more  awful  and 
gloomy  view  of  Fate,  which  conceives  of  it  as  mightier 
than  Zeus  himself:  "Who,  then,"  asks  the  Chorus, 
"is  the  pilot  of  necessity?  Prom.:  The  triform  Fates 
and  the  remembering  Furies.  Cho.:  Is  Zeus,  then, 
less  powerful  than  these  ?  Prom.:  Most  certainly ;  he 
can  not,  at  any  rate,  escape  his  doom."  Here  we  are 
in  the  presence  of  an  irresistible  power.  "  Marvelous," 
says  the  Chorus  in  Antigone,  "is  the  power  of  Fate. 
Neither  tempest  nor  war,  nor  tower,  nor  black  sea 
beaten  ships  escape  its  control." 

What,  now,  in  the  presence  of  this  irresistible  power, 
these  dread  goddesses,  daughters  of  Jove,  scarcely,  if  at 
all,  inferior  to  their  sire,  becomes  of  the  liberty  of  man  ? 
We  can  not  say  certainly  that  it  is  overlooked  or  de- 
nied. Eteocles,  in  his  address  to  the  people  of  Thebes, 
anticipates  Cromwell's  famous  order:  "Put  your  trust 
in  God  and  keep  your  powder  dry."  "On!"  exclaims 
Eteocles,  "in  full  panoply  throng  the  breastworks  and 
take  your  stations  on  the  platforms  of  the  towers ;  and 
making  stand  at  the  outlets  of  the  gates,  be  of  good 
heart.  God  will  give  a  happy  issue."  And  in  the 
drama  of  the  Persians  the  ghost  of  Darius  says — "I 
had  expected  that  the  gods  would  bring  these  things 
to  their  complete  fulfillment  after  a  long  issue.  But 
when  a  man  is  himself  speeding  onward,  God  also  lends 
a  hand."  This  last  expression  embodies,  as  Professor 
Tyler  remarks,  "the  prevailing  sentiment  of  the  Great 
Tragedians ;  men  go  to  destruction  under  the  impulse 
of  their  own  folly  and  madness  and  an  angry  deity  has 
only  to  add  the  spur. "  It  would  indeed  have  been  the 
strangest  thing  in  the  world,  if  in  Greece,  of  all  lands, 
free,  active,  versatile,  bright  and  joyous  Greece,  we  had 
failed  to  find  any  recognition  of  personal  freedom.     The 


i>ROVIDENCE    IN    THE    CREEK    DRAMA.  47 

wonder  to  my  mind  is  that  there  was  not  everywhere 
the  most  distinct  and  emphatic  recognition  of  the  free- 
dom of  man's  will,  and  that  it  did  not  err  rather  on 
this  side  than  on  the  other.  And  yet  nothing  is  more 
unquestionable  than  that  when  the  Greek  mind  con- 
fronted this  question  in  its  most  religious  moods,  when 
it  meditated  most  profoundly  on  "  fixed  fate,  free  will, 
foreknowledge  absolute,"  and  sought  in  the  devoutest 
spirit  to  explain  the  mysteries  of  Providence,  it  dis- 
played the  strongest  fatalistic  tendencies.  And  there 
can  be  no  proof  more  striking  or  satisfactory,  of  the 
inability  of  any  religion  of  nature  or  of  humanity,  to 
develop  a  perfect  sense  of  individual  liberty  and  to  free 
the  spirit  from  the  bondage  of  fatalism,  than  the  failure 
of  the  Greek  religion  to  accomplish  this  result.  How 
terrible  the  iron  bondage  of  this  destiny  which  drove 
men  even  to  madness,  and  crime,  we  see  in  almost  every 
drama.  When  Orestes  is  about  to  slay  his  mother  for 
the  murder  of  his  father,  her  plea  is  that  she  was  im- 
pelled by  fate ;  and  Orestes  is  urged  to  the  deed  by  his 
friend  because  the  gods  required  it.  When  Ajax  com- 
mits suicide,  Tecmessa,  his  captive  concubine,  exults  in 
the  thought  that  his  suicide  was  from  the  gods,  so  that 
his  enemies  could  not  boast  that  they  had  slain  him. 
'*  By  the  gods  he  died,  not  by  them — No !  "  And  what 
does  the  startling  frequency  of  suicide  in  the  Greek 
drama  show  but  the  desperation  of  souls  oppressed  with 
the  painful  sense  of  an  inevitable  destiny  dogging  their 
footsteps,  from  which  there  is  no  escape,  but  by  plung- 
ing into  the  darkness  of  death. 

The  old  and  ever-present  mystery  of  suffering  inno- 
cence and  of  prospering  wickedness  only  aggravated  the 
fatalistic  gloom.  In  his  endeavors  to  grope  his  way 
out  of  the  perplexing  labyrinth  of  difficulties  surround- 
ing this  question,  the  Greek  plunged  deeper  and  deeper 


48  LLEWELYN   JOAN    EVANS. 

into  doubt,  error  and  despair.  First  he  would  try  ap- 
parently the  theory  that  prosperity  begets  adversity. 
Thus  the  Chorus  in  Agamemnon:  "The  great  happi- 
ness of  man  at  its  consummation  begets  an  offspring,  nor 
childless  dies ;  and  from  good  fortune  there  sprouts  forth 
for  posterity  insatiate  calamity."  Then  he  would  con- 
ceive of  life  as  an  endless  round  of  changes,  of  alter- 
nating joy  and  sorrow,  success  and  failure,  rising  and 
falling.  "To  the  Gods  alone,"  says  Oedipus,  "  old  age 
belongs  not,  nor  indeed  ever  to  -die  :  but  everything  else 
does  all-powerful  time  confound.  The  vigor  of  the 
earth  indeed  decays,  and  the  vigor  of  the  body  decays ; 
faith  dies  and  falsehood  springs  up ;  and  the  same  gale 
hath  never  at  all  blown,  neither  to  friends  among  men — 
for  to  some  indeed  already  and  to  others  in  after  time, 
the  things  that  are  sweet  become  bitter,  and  again 
friendly.  And  now  if  everything  is  prosperously  tran- 
quil to  Thebes  with  you,  infinite  time  will  in  his  course 
beget  an  infinite  number  of  days  and  nights  —  then  will 
dissolve  with  the  spear  the  present  harmony."  Again 
the  doctrine  that  God  is  jealous  of  his  supremacy,  his 
sovereignty,  had,  in  accordance  with  the  degrading  ten- 
dency of  Greek  anthropomorphism,  degenerated  into 
the  conception  that  the  gods  are  selfishly  jealous  of 
their  prerogatives,  and  thus  become  envious  of  human 
prosperity.  Thus  Elcctra  mourns  that  the  race  of  the 
children  of  Pelops  has  perished  because  that  "-envy 
from  heaven  has  seized  it."  And  the  Chorus  in  Aga- 
memnon utters  the  warning  that  for  a  man  to  have  an 
exceedingly  high  reputation  is  a  sad  thing;  for  the 
thunderbolt  from  Zeus  is  launched  against  him.  It  is 
easy  to  see  how  such  a  view  of  the  Divine  treatment 
must  tend  on  the  one  hand  to  rivet  the  chains  of  fatal- 
ism, and  on  the  other  to  loosen  the  bands  of  moral  ob- 
ligation,     ^schylus,  says  President  Woolsey,   "makes 


PROVIDENCE    IN    THE    GREEK    DRAMA.  49 

the  Furies,  so  to  speak,  personifications  of  an  impulse 
which  wreaks  itself  upon  the  violator  of  natural  order, 
whether  he  is  engaged  on  the  side  of  justice  or  not  — 
of  a  blind  force  which,  Hke  the  fiery  furnace  in  Scripture, 
burns  as  the  minister  of  the  highest  authority."  It  is 
true  that  these  sentiments  have  a  dramatic  significance, 
and  allowance  should  doubtless  be  made  for  the  charac- 
ters and  the  situation  from  which  they  proceed,  and  for 
the  dramatic  purpose  which  they  serve.  It  is  none  the 
less  true  however,  that  they  occur  continually  in  every 
drama ;  that  almost  every  character  bears  witness  to  their 
influence ;  and  especially  that  they  are  in  perfect  har- 
mony with  the  general  tone  and  drift  of  the  entire 
drama  —  the  great  organ  of  the  Greek  Religion. 

This  then  is  the  conclusion  to  which  we  come.  The 
Greek  doctrine  of  the  Divine  Government  possessed  ele- 
ments of  wonderful  grandeur.  It  contains  a  distinct  em- 
phatic recognition  of  an  overruling  Providence.  Whether 
it  be  Zeus,  or  the  gods,  or  destiny,  there  is  an  irresisti- 
ble Power  impelling  and  directing  all  events  —  a  power 
nevertheless,  which  can  be  influenced'  by  prayer,  the 
agency  of  which  may  bring  to  pass  the  fulfillment  of 
the  decree  foreordained  from  the  olden  time.  The  Prov- 
idence which  this  Power  exercises,  is  not  only  general 
but  special.  It  rules  the  affairs  not  only  of  nations  and 
races,  but  of  families  and  individuals.  It  administers 
the  laws  not  only  of  the  natural  but  of  the  moral  world. 
The  laws  which  govern  the  universe  are  exalted  to  the 
very  highest  pinnacle  of  authoritative  sublimity.  They 
are  instinct  with  divine  energy  and  life. 

And  yet,  when  we  descend  from  the  ethereal  heights 
where  this  Divine  Providence  bears  sway,  to  the  sphere 
of  human  activity,  and  especially  of  human  suffering 
and  crime,  all  is  changed.  We  are  surrounded  by  a 
chilly  gloom.     'We  breathe  a  stifling  atmosphere,     A 


50  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

terrible  fatality  reigns.  Man  is  bound  by  a  chain  of 
iron.  He  is  borne  along  on  the  dark  current  against 
which  it  is  vain  to  struggle  as  it  sweeps  him  toward  the 
abyss.  The  gods  are  become  his  enemies.  Envying  his 
prosperity,  they  laugh  at  his  calamity,  and  exult  over 
the  wreck  of  his  happiness  and  his  hopes. 

It  is  a  question  of  profound  significance  :  how  should 
such  a  theology  have  arisen,  and  above  all  in  Greece  ? 
How  upon  an  intellect  so  keen  and  resolute  as  the 
Greek,  should  a  system  so  contradictory  have  forced 
itself?  How  could  a  nature  so  airy  and  joyous,  so  pas- 
sionately loving  the  flashing  sunlight  and  the  sparkling 
wave,  have  evoked  so  dark  and  grim  a  shadow  to  haunt 
and  to  dog  its  footsteps  ?  How  could  a  life  reveling  in  all 
the  luxuriant  freedom  of  artistic  beauty,  and  in  all  the  ex- 
citing whirl  of  political  enthusiasm,  have  come  to  be  so 
painfully  conscious  in  its  thoughtful  moods,  of  the  gall- 
ing yoke  of  irreversible  Fate,  and  to  hear  amid  life's 
very  paeans  the  clanking  of  the  dungeon  chains  ? 
The  answer  to  these  questions  is  not  far  to  seek  ;  and 
all  will  do  well  to  heed  and  ponder  it,  who  are  tempted, 
as  Greece  was,  and  as  so  many  of  us  are,  to  identify 
God  with  Fate,  to  confound  the  Divine  and  the  human, 
to  deify  man,  to  make  nature  all  in  all.  If  we  had  no 
better  teacher  than  Greece,  all  that  would  remain  to  us 
would  be  to  exclaim  with  Tecmessa —  "Ah  me!  to 
what  a  yoke  of  slavery  we  pass  !  What  taskmasters  are 
over  us  !  " 


II. 

CHRISTIAN  CHIVALRY.* 

In  the  days  of  chivalry,  when  the  candidate  for  knight- 
hood had  received  his  training  and  served  his  probation, 
he  was  led  to  an  altar,  where,  kneeling,  he  received 
from  the  hand  of  his  king  or  his  feudal  lord,  or  from 
some  fairer  hand,  representative  of  beauty  rather  than 
of  power,  the  accolade,  the  sword  stroke  which  devoted 
him  to  his  vocation. 

To-day,  my  brethren,  marks  a  similar  investiture  in 
your  history.  You  have  reached  the  end  of  your  spe- 
cial training  for  your  calling.  You  are  about  to  pass 
forth  out  of  the  school  of  preparation  into  the  world  of 
action.  To-day  you  receive  from  your  loving  and  be- 
loved mother  your  accolade,  administered,  not  like  that 
of  old,  with  the  sword,  but  with  its  milder  yet  mightier 
successor.  To-day  she  sends  you  forth  invested  with 
her  seal  and  signature,  to  join  the  glorious  army  of 
Christian  knights,  who,  here,  there,  yonder,  every- 
where in  the  broad  world,  are  fighting  grander  battles 
than  any  in  which  ever  Paladin  couched  his  lance  or 
drew  his  sword. 

Or  will  it  be  said  that  this  is  a  vain  or  fanciful  anal- 
ogy;  that  chivalry  and'  its  heroes,  its  forms  and  its 
spirit,  have  alike  passed  away  ?     One  singer  of  our  time 


■••■  GraduatinfT  address  to  the  Class  of  1874. 

(SI) 


52  Llewelyn  ioan  evans. 

has  indeed  told  us  that  "earth  is  grown  coward  and 
old."  Another  has  sung  that  the  "earth  is  all  too 
gray  for  chivalry."  Others  would  perhaps  choose  to 
say  that  our  world  is  too  mature  for  that  caprice  of  its 
childhood.  'Tis  true  "the  whole  round  table  is  dis- 
solved;" the  occupation  of  its  knights  is  gone;  the  dy- 
ing Arthur  has  been  borne  away  to  the  isle  of  Avalon. 
But,  according  to  the  old  legend,  "  Arthur  is  come 
again,  he  can  not  die."  The  soul  of  true  knighthood  is 
still  marching  on  in  the  world.  Yes,  believe  me,  my 
brethren,  that  glorious  army  of  Christian  knights,  which 
I  said  just  now  you  are  sent  to-day  to  join,  is  no  spec- 
tral host.  It  was  never  more  truly  a  reality  than  it  is 
to-day.  A  truer,  nobler  knighthood  has  arisen,  trans- 
figured, out  of  the  grave  of  the  old.  Whatever  was 
best,  purest,  divinest  in  the  older  order,  its  unfaltering- 
loyalty,  its  disinterested  devotion,  its  chivalric  enthusi- 
asm, its  jealous  regard  for  a  stainless  honor,  its  heroic 
championship  of  a  sacred  cause,  its  high  ideal  of  purity, 
unselfishness,  consecration,  fidelity  unto  death,  all  this 
finds  its  glorified  expression  in  the  vocation  of  each  one 
whom  God  anoints  to  be  a  champion  of  His  honor,  a 
defender  of  His  cause.  I,  for  one,  believe  that  this 
transfigured  chivalry  is  more  and  more  imbreathing 
itself  into  every  pursuit,  beautifying  every  human  call- 
ing, redeeming  it  from  the  taint  of  mercenariness  and 
sordidness,  and  inspiring  instead  a  spirit  of  unselfish 
consecration  to  a  high  ideal.  More  and  more  is  it  felt 
that  the  condition  both  of  nobleness  of  character  and 
of  excellence  of  achievement,  is  a  loving  absorption  in 
some  worthy  end,  the  ardent,  chivalrous,  enthusiastic 
enlistment  of  the  whole  man  in  some  glorious  vocation 
worthy  to  be  pursued  and  to  be  loved  for  its  own  sake. 
You  may  remember  how,  in  Daniel  Deronda,  when 
the  fair  heroine,  at  one  crisis  in  her  history,  would  em- 


CHRISTIAN    CHIVALRY.  53 

brace  the  vocation  of  an  artist,  from  the  stress  of  cir- 
cumstances and  not  from  the  impulse  of  love,  an  earn- 
est devotee  of  art  dissuading  her,  says  this  of  the  life  of 
an  artist:  '*  It  is  out  of  the  reach  of  any  but  choice  or- 
ganizations, natures  framed  to  love  perfection  and  to 
labor  for  it,  ready,  like  all  true  lovers,  to  endure,  to 
wait,  to  say  I  am  not  yet  worthy,  but  she,  Art,  my 
mistress,  is  worthy,  and  I  will  live  to  merit  her.  An 
honorable  life?  Yes;  but  the  honor  comes  from  the 
inward  vocation  and  the  hard  won  achievement.  There 
is  no  honor  in  donning  the  life  as  a  livery." 

To  this  ideal  of  a  life  devoted  to  Art,  let  me  add  one 
or  two  other  ideals,  which  thoughtful  minds  have  pict- 
ured of  some  of  the  noblest  and  most  alluring  pursuits 
which  offer  themselves  to  young  men  of  culture  to-day. 
Not  long  ago  a  statesman,  who  bears  one  of  the  most 
honored  names  in  our  history,  and  who  has  himself  been 
conspicuous  for  his  abiHty  and  wisdom  in  places  of  pub- 
he  trust,  thus  expressed  himself  on  the  opportunities 
of  public  life  in  the  immediate  future  in  our  own  land : 
'  *  I  should  feel  myself  to  be  very  much  belittling  the 
recommendation  I  venture  to  make  to  my  young  friends 
to  cultivate  a  taste  for  statesm.anship  of  the  widest  scope, 
if  I  were  to  associate  it  in  general  with  the  hope  of 
getting  into  pov/er.  *  *  ^  Never  in  any  preceding 
record  of  human  history  has  there  been  a  fairer  opening 
for  the  full  development  of  the  noblest  aspirations  for 
good  which  the  Divine  Being  has  been  pleased  to  im- 
plant in  the  bosoms  of  His  creatures.  Here  is  ample 
space  and  verge  enough  for  the  most  farseeing  states- 
man, the  most  persuasive  orator,  the  most  profound 
philosopher,  the  most  exalted  philanthropist.  Answer 
me,  I  pray  you,  shall  it  be  indeed  that  this  marvelous 
scene  will  be  occupied  by  actors  worthy  of  their  place, 
who  will  strain  'their  utmost  powers  to  rise  to  every 


54  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

great  emergency,  and  do  for  their  fellow  men  all  that 
mortal  power  has  been  able  to  effect  since  the  forfeiture 
of  paradise?"  (Charles  Francis  Adams  :  Discourse  be- 
fore the  Phi  Beta  Kappa,   1873.) 

Turn  to  another  liberal  profession,  that  of  medicine, 
and  what  is  the  ideal  of  greatness  which  you  find?  It 
is — I  am  quoting  from  a  late  address  of  an  eminent  phy- 
sician before  the  Medical  Society  of  the  State  of  New 
York — *'  the  spectacle  of  Vesalius,  in  his  first  dissection, 
as  illustrating  the  holy  ardor,  the  nobility,  the  heroic 
courage  of  the  profession  in  his  age,  and  in  all  ages. 
In  the  path  of  investigation  was  toil,  and  dishonor,  and 
death  itself;  but  it  was  the  road  of  life  for  all  the  race 
of  man.  He  died  a  martyr  to  his  zeal,  but  his  work 
survived."  Another  eminent  representative  of  the  pro- 
fession declares,  "  the  mission  of  the  physician  to  be  a 
covenant  with  the  Most  High,  and  God  will  hold  us 
(physicians)  responsible  for  the  sacred  discharge  of  duty. 
The  sacred  ark  of  human  life  is  intrusted  to  us ;  we  are 
anointed  priests  in  its  service  ;  our  hands  must  be  clean, 
our  hearts  pure,  and  our  souls  deeply  reverent  in  its 
ministrations."  (Dr.  Wood,  of  Philadelphia;  annual 
address  before  the  Society  of  Alumni  of  the  Medical 
Department  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  by  Dr. 
C.  C.  Comegys,  1875.)  While  still  another  has  called 
it  **the  most  godlike  function  that  can  be  exercised  by 
a  human  being — a  function  discharged  in  its  ideal  per- 
fection only  by  the  Son  of  Man."  (Dr.  Russell,  of  the 
Royal  College  of  Physicians,  in  London.) 

So,  in  regard  to  the  spirit  in  which  the  profession  of 
the  law  should  be  pursued,  the  following  noble  words 
were  spoken,  hot  long  ago,  in  our  own  city,  by  one 
whom  I  take  pleasure  in  mentioning  as  one  of  our  own 
honored  Trustees,  and  recently  advanced  to  a  conspicu- 
ous place  in  the  councils  of  the  nation  :   * '  The  days  of 


CHRISTIAN    CHIVALRY.  55 

chivalry  are  not  gone.  There  are  still  knights,  armed 
cap-a-pie,  who  are  ready  to-day  to  do  battle  for  justice 
and  for  right,  who  are  to-day  ready  to  accept  the  chal- 
lenge of  any  comer  in  defense  of  the  weak  and  oppressed 
and  the  defenseless.  There  is  nothing  mercantile  in  our 
profession.  It  is  not  a  trade,  and  I  make  the  contrast 
not  at  all  because  I  deprecate  the  character  of  the 
merchant  and  the  tradesman.  But  there  is  something 
in  the  liberal  and  learned  and  honorable  profession  to 
which  you  consider  yourselves  called,  which  is  above 
the  exchange  of  equivalence,  which  puts  away  the  idea 
of  bargains  and  barters,  which  professes  to  live  for  an 
idea,  which  looks  beyond  the  mere  result  of  a  particu- 
lar case,  and  regards  every  professional  effort  as  a  con- 
tribution to  that  ideal  justice  which  grows  up  day  by 
day  in  the  administration  of  the  law  in  all  its  depart- 
ments, and  lies  recorded  in  the  judgments  of  the  courts, 
constituting  the  imperishable  form  and  fabric  of  profes- 
sional reputation,  which  advances  day  by  day  with  the 
history  of  civilization,  incorporating  everything  good 
and  lofty  and  sublime  in  human  conduct,  and  will  never 
be  satisfied  until  it  brings  human  justice  and  divine  jus- 
tice to  coincide."  (Address  of  Hon.  Stanley  Matthews 
to  graduating  class  of  Cincinnati  Law  School,   1876.) 

These  are  noble  words,  all  of  them.  These  are  ex- 
alted ideals  of  these  influential  vocations.  And  you 
will  observe  how  that  in  all  these  ideals,  the  central, 
vital  thought  is  consecration,  self-renunciation,  a  chival- 
rous self-surrender  to  a  lofty  and  absorbing  passion  or 
aim.  Was  it  too  much,  to  say  then,  just  now,  that  the 
spirit  of  true  knighthood  is  not  only  still  Hving  in  the 
world,  but  is  more  and  more  possessing,  inspiring, 
transfiguring  the  various  spheres  of  human  endeavor? 
But  if  this  ideal  is  thus  asserting  its  queenly  sway  over 
these  other  calHngs,  how  much  more,  brethren,  should 


56  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

it  govern  ours  ?  If  the  service  of  the  art  which  makes 
Hfe  fair  must  come  from  the  inward  vocation,  how 
much  more  the  service  of  the  art  which  makes  hfe  holy 
and  godhke  ?  If  the  hfe  of  those  who  minister  at  the 
shrine  of  beauty  must  not  be  donned  as  a  Hvery,  how 
much  less  the  hfe  of  those  who 

"  Not  for  the  meed  of  praise 
Or  earthly  honor,  or  the  chaff  of  swine, 
Are  as  the  priests  who  in  the  Temple  wait 
And  do  their  service,  choosing  Wisdom  fair 
In  her  unearthly  beauty  !  " 

If  the  service  of  an  earthly  commonv/ealth  invites 
the  unselfish  surrender  of  the  noblest  energies  and  the 
highest  attainments,  how  much  more  the  service  of  that 
heavenly  commonwealth,  whose  citizenship  is  a  priestly 
kingship,  crowned  with  a  holy  and  blessed  immortality  ? 
If  the  beneficent  vocation  of  ministering  to  the  disor- 
ders of  the  body  be  consistent  only  with  complete  self- 
abnegation,  if  its  true  spirit  be  that  of  a  chivalrous  alac- 
rity in  responding,  at  whatever  risk  or  loss  to  self,  to 
every  appeal  for  relief  or  deliverance,  how  much  more 
should  the  vocation  of  ministering  to  souls  diseased, 
vindicate  itself  as  one  holy,  unfaltering,  impassioned, 
self-forgetting  purpose  to  help,  to  heal,  to  rescue,  where 
the  plague  of  sin  is  spreading  wickedness  and  death  ?  If 
he  whose  calling  it  is  to  defend  personal  or  social  right 
to  secure  the  triumph  of  justice  should  put  av/ay  every 
idea  of  bargain  and  barter  or  equivalence,  how  much  more 
should  you  do  this  whose  privilege  it  is  to  labor  for  the 
most  definite  and  at  the  same  time  the  most  complete 
fulfillment  of  the  petition,  **Thy  will  be  done  on  earth 
as  in  Heaven?"  If  in  any  calling  whatever  the  ruling 
passion  should  be  utter  disregard  of  self,  and  the  most 
ardent  ''enthusiasm  of  humanity,"  is  not  that  calHng, 
my  brethren,  yours? 


CHRISTIAN    CHIVALRY. 


5; 


Let  me  beseech  you  then,  to-day,  to  magnify  your 
caUing.  Rejoice  in  the  divineness  which  crowns  it  as 
the  chief  of  all  human  vocations.  Give  yourselves  up 
to  it  wholly.  Make  full  proof  of  all  its  capabilities  for 
power,  for  growth,  for  blessing.  Fight  manfully  the 
good  fight  of  faith.  Test  to  the  utmost  every  weapon 
put  in  your  hands.  Let  no  blot  fall  on  your  escutch- 
eon. Be  anxious  only  to  know  and  to  do  the  will  of 
the  Great  Commander.  I  take  joy  in  thinking  that 
more  than  one-half  of  your  number  belong  to  a  band 
of  more  than  twenty  young  men  whom  our  church  is 
to-day  sending  forth  out  of  our  theological  seminaries 
beyond  the  great  central  river  of  our  continent,  to  fight 
the  battle  of  the  cross.  But  whether  on  the  hither  or 
the  yonder  side  of  the  Father  of  Waters,  you  all  belong 
to  the  same  army,  you  are  fighting  the  same  battles, 
you  are  following  the  same  Leader.  Be  inwardly 
strengthened  in  Him  and  in  the  power  of  His  might. 
Put  on  the  divine  panoply,  the  inspired  description  of 
which  it  has  been  your  privilege,  as  a  class,  to  study 
so  lately.  Let  nothing  be  lacking,  neither  sword,  nor 
shield,  nor  breastplate,  nor  girdle.  You  will  need  them 
all.  It  is  no  easy  task  that  awaits  you.  Dark  days 
will  pass  over  you ;  hours  of  faintness  and  weariness 
will  overtake  you. 

"Hast  thou  the  sign 
God  gives  His  chosen  warriors  ?    As  of  old, 
Their  joys  and  sorrows  are  not  as  the  rest ; 
Their  fleece  is  wet  when  all  around  is  dry. 
The  dew  of  heaven  is  theirs,  to  cheer  and  bless, 
When  others  sink  upon  the  arid  sand ; 
Their  fleece  is  dry  when  all  around  is  wet, 
They  have  their  sorrows  which  the  world  knows  not, 
Their  conflicts  in  the  midnight  loneliness, 
That  others  taste  not." 


58  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

But  be  of  good  cheer.  Remember  the  vevcxT^xa,  the 
*'  I  have  overcome  "  of  our  Captain.  Even  to  fail  with 
Christ  were  better  than  to  win  with  the  world. 

"  The  solemn  shadow  of  His  cross 
Is  better  than  the  sun." 

That  cross  still  has  its  knights,  who  are  summoned  to 
the  unquenchable  ardor  of  a  sublime  enthusiam.  Christ 
still  has  His  heroes  who  are  invited  to  the  undying  de- 
votion of  an  all-enfolding  love.  And  my  prayer  for  you 
to-day,  my  brethren,  is  that  you  may  receive  in  full 
measure  this  sacramental  chrism.  Let  your  souls  thrill 
to  the  holy  passion.  Let  your  hearts  leap  up  to  your 
celestial  call.  Go  forth  to  your  work  to-day,  not  with 
laggard  feet,  not  with  backward  or  drooping  look,  not 
with  listless  heart,  but  having  your  feet  shod  with  the 
eager  alacrity  of  the  Gospel  of  peace,  your  eyes  kin- 
dling with  the  joyous  radiance  of  the  prize  of  your  high 
calling,  your  hearts  burning  with  the  sacred  and  purify- 
ing fire  from  the  altar  of  heaven.  Go  forth  not  as  hire- 
lings, not  as  conscripts  forced  to  an  unwelcome  service, 
but  freely,  joyously,  as  the  elect  of  heaven,  each  one  as 
the  son  of  a  king,  from  strength  to  strength,  from  vic- 
tory to  victory. 

Do  you  remember  Tennyson's  exquisite  little  poem 
in  which  the  Christian  knight.  Sir  Galahad,  sings  the 
song  of  his  pilgrimage  in  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail,  the 
blessed  cup  of  our  Lord's  blood  ?  As  he  rides  on  his 
way  he  is  sustained  by  divine  helps  and  visions  of  which 
grosser  natures  know  nothing.  Dark,  tempest-swept  for- 
ests become  to  him  as  cathedrals  filled  with  the  noise 
of  hymns,  the  gleamings  of  tapers  and  silver  vessels, 
and  the  fragrance  of  sweet  incense.  On  lonely  mount- 
ain ways  he  has  visions  in  the  dark,  of  the  Holy  Grail 


CHRISTIAN    CHIVALRY.  59 

borne   by  angel   hands.     Winter   storms   beat   on   his 
head. 

"  But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 
And  gilds  the  driving  hail." 

As  he  muses  in  holy  aspiration  on  "joy  that  will  not 
cease,"  his  mortal  armor,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 
is  ** turned  to  finest  air."  And  he  disappears  from  our 
view,  marching  on  to  celestial  music,  and  to  the  sound 
of  angel  voices  encouraging  him  with  the  assurance  that 
the  prize  he  seeks  is  not  far  from  him. 

Brethren,  as  you  go  forth  on  your  sublime  quest,  not 
of  the  Holy  Grail,  but  of  the  souls  which  Christ's  blood 
was  shed  to  save,  you  may  hope  that  the  world  will  be- 
come for  you,  too,  a  grand  cathedral  filled  with  worship 
and  with  holy  beauty  and  awe.  Heavenly  music  will 
at  times  steal  on  your  souls'  hearing  with  entrancing 
sweetness. 

Blessed  visions  of  immortality  will  approach  you, 
causing  your  spirit  to  beat  her  mortal  bars.  A  glory  of 
earth  will  overarch  every  cloud.  The  lilies  of  the  heav- 
enly Eden  will  waft  their  fragrance  over  the  still  hours 
of  contemplation  and  prayer,  and  the  weight  of  your 
arms  will  no  longer  be  felt. 

"  The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  outer  walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear. 
O,  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God, 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 


III. 

THE  INFLUENCE  OF  CIVILIZATION  ON 
DOGMATIC  THEOLOGY. 

The  influence  of  Dogmatic  Theology  on  Civilization 
of  which  we  had  last  week  so  able  and  interesting  a 
discussion,  naturally  suggests  the  query  whether  there 
may  not  be  a  reciprocal  influence  of  Civilization  on 
Dogmatic  Theology.  The  law  of  action  and  reaction 
finds  place  in  the  mental  as  in  the  physical  world.  True, 
in  the  one  the  reaction  is  always  equal  to  the  action. 
Not  so  in  the  other.  But  the  fact  of  reaction  remains. 
That  there  is  an  action  of  Theology  on  Civilization  has 
been  sufficiently  demonstrated.  If  there  is  a  reaction 
it  behooves  us  to  learn  what  it  is,  how  far  it  extends, 
and  what  we  are  to  do  about  it.  Civilization,  it  will  be 
granted,  owes  more  to  Dogmatic  Theology,  than 
Theology  to  Civilization.  It  would  be  unphilosophical 
and  foolish  however,  for  that  reason,  to  disregard  the 
less  because  it  does  not  equal  the  more. 

In  its  broadest  sense  Civilization  would  mean  the 
complex  total  of  social  condition  and  development. 
It  would  include  the  forces  represented  by  the  terms 
science,  literature  and  art.  But  to  define  the  special 
influence  of  these  several  factors  would  be  impossible 
within  the  limits  of  this  paper.  I  shall  therefore  con- 
fine the  discussion  to  the  influence  of  civilization  in  its 
more  external  aspect,  as  exhibited  in  social  agencies 
(60) 


CIVILIZATION  AND  DOGMATIC  THEOLOGY.  6 1 

and  forms,  race  and  national  characteristics,  political 
and  legal  institutions,  and  in  general  the  organic  life 
and  movement  of  humanity. 

By  Dogmatic  Theology  I  mean  the  formulated  ex- 
pression of  religious  thought  as  the  same  has  found 
currency  in  the  Church  Universal,  or  in  the  represent- 
ative branches  of  the  Church  of  Christ. 

Let  me  first  clear  out  of  the  way  a  few  erroneous  im- 
plications in  respect  to  the  question. 

1.  The  influence  of  Civilization  on'  Dogmatic  Theol- 
ogy does  not  imply  the  truth  of  Comte's  view  that  the 
human  mind  in  its  progress  passes  through  three 
stages  —  the  theological,  the  metaphysical  and  the 
scientific.  Theology  is  not  any  more  than  metaphysics 
a  passing  phase  of  the  development  of  thought.  Each 
is  a  science  as  truly  as  what  Positivism  calls  science. 
Physics,  the  science  of  the  material ;  Metaphysics,  the 
science  of  the  mental ;  Theology,  the  science  of  the 
supernatural  —  each  is  destined  to  share  in  the  advance- 
ment of  scientific  method  and  outlook  through  all  the 
coming  generations  of  time.  "  And  now  there  abideth 
these  three;  and  the  greatest  of  these  is  Theology," 
scientia  scientiarum. 

2.  The  influence  of  Civilization  on  Theology  does 
not  imply  that  Theology  is  a  product  of  Civilization  in 
any  of  its  constituent  forces,  as  Buckle  and  other  ma- 
terialists since  have  held.  Christian  Theology  is  no 
evolution  of  material,  mental  or  social  phenomena.  It 
is  throughout  of  supernatural  origin.  Its  contents  are 
given  by  divine  revelation.  Theology  comes  out  of 
the  Bible:  the  Bible  does  not  come  out  of  nature. 

3.  The  Bible  is  divine.  Theology  is  human.  It  is 
the  effort  of  the  scientific  intellect  to  construct  the  re- 
vealed facts  of  the  Bible  into  a  system  of  thought  and 
belief     As  such  'it  is   imperfect,  fallible,  mutable,  sus- 


62  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

ceptible  to  the  modifying  influences  of  its  environment, 
whatever  these  may  be. 

4.  The  modifying  influences  of  Civilization  as  an 
environment  of  Theology  are  of  a  mixed  character, 
partaking  of  the  mixed  character  of  civilization  itself. 
In  part  they  are  beneficial,  in  part  injurious.  Each 
modification  is  to  be  judged  independently  on  its  own 
merits.  The  fact  that  it  proceeds  from  Civilization 
does  not  require  per  se  either  its  commendation  or  its 
condemnation.  Not  only  so,  but  the  same  modification 
will  at  times  exhibit  this  mixed  character.  In  some 
directions  its  operation  may  be  advantageous,  in  others 
disadvantageous. 

5.  As  was  hinted  above,  it  is  not  implied  that  the  in- 
fluence of  civilization  on  dogmatics  is  of  necessity  of  the 
same  kind  or  degree  with  the  influence  of  theology  on 
civilization.  The  latter  influence  is  doubtless  far  the 
more  positive,  the  more  direct,  the  more  vital,  the  more 
decisive,  the  more  lasting.  It  has  in  it  more  of  the 
power  of  inspiration  and  organization.  Largely  indeed, 
the  influence  of  Civilization  is  the  reflex  influence  of 
Dogma  on  itself;  as  in  some  instances  we  see  the  action 
of  the  mind  on  the  body  react  on  the  mind  itself. 

Having  premised  thus  much,  I  now  assume  the  in- 
fluence of  Civilization  on  Dogmatic  Theology  as  a  fact 
which  no  intelligent  student  of  history  will  question. 
Dr.  Shedd  has  stated  the  law  thus:  **The  relation  be- 
tween the  two  sciences  of  theology  and  history  is  not 
that  of  mere  cause  and  effect,  in  which  the  activity  is 
all  on  one  side,  and  the  passivity  all  on  the  other.  It 
is  rather  an  organic  relation  of  action  and  reaction  in 
which  both  are  causes  and  both  are  effects,  and  both  are 
passive  recipients. "     (Philos.  of  Hist.  p.  122.) 

And  again:  **In  some  way  or  another  each  of  the 
historic  sections  sustains  a  relation  of  action  and  reac- 


eiVILl2AtlON    AND  DOGMATIC!  THEOLOGY.  63 

tioii ;  and  in  and  by  this  interagency  the  total  process 
of  evolution  goes  forward."     (Ibid,  p.   102.)     So  again 
in  speaking  of  the  influence  of  one  important  factor  of 
civilization,  to-wit:  philosophy  on  Theology,    he    says: 
"In  the  history  of  man  that  which  is  human  precedes, 
chronologically,   that  which  is  divine.      'That  was  not 
first  which  is  spiritual,  but  that  which  is  natural,   and 
afterward   that   which    is   spiritual'     Men   are    sinners 
before  they  are  made  saints  ;  and  they  are  philosophers 
before  they  become  theologians."    And  still  more  broad- 
ly:   ''Christianity  comes  down  from  heaven  by  a  su- 
pernatural revelation,  but  it  finds  an  existing  state  of 
human  culture  into  which  it  enters  and  begins  to  exert 
its   transforming   power.     Usually  it  overmasters  that 
culture,   but  in  some  instances  it  is  temporarily  over- 
mastered by  it."    (Hist,  of  Christian  Doctrine  I,  29,  30.) 
It  was  remarked  above  that  Theology  is  not  the  prod- 
uct of  Civilization.     It  might  however  be  shown,  and  it 
would  be  an  interesting  and  profitable  study  in  Biblical 
Theology,  to  show  that  civilization  has  largely  furnished 
the  moulds  of  theologic  truth  as  originally  presented  in 
the  Word  of  God.     Simply  by  way  of  illustration  I  will 
give  two  instances,  one  from  the  Old  Testament,  and  one 
from   the  New.      It  is  well  known  what  an  important 
place  the  idea  of  the  family  fills  in  the  Old  Testament. 
It  lies  at  the  basis  of  the  whole  doctrine  of  the  Cove- 
nants.    It  is  an  essential  element  in  the  conception  of 
the  Church  and  of  its  sacraments.      It  is  a  conspicuous 
feature  of  the  doctrine  of  representative  responsibility, 
in  the  Old  Testament  representation  of  these  great  the- 
ologic truths.      Now  the  view  of  the  family  which  un- 
derlies this  whole  department  of  Theology  is  pre-emi- 
nently a  product  of  the  ancient,  and  in  particular  of  the 
patriarchal  civilization.     Sir  H.   Maine  says :   "The  unit 
of  ancient  society  was  the   Family,   of  modern   socie- 


64  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

ty  the  Individual.  We  must  be  prepared  to  find  in 
Ancient  Law  all  the  consequences  of  this  difference.  .  . 
Above  all,  .  .  it  takes  a  view  of  life  wholly  unlike  any 
which  appears  in  developed  jurisprudence.  Corporations 
never  die,  and  accordingly  primitive  law  considers  the 
entities  with  which  it  deals,  that  is,  the  patriarchal  or 
family  groups,  as  perpetual  and  inextinguishable.  This 
view  is  closely  allied  to  the  peculiar  aspect  under  which 
in  very  ancient  times,  moral  attributes  present  them- 
selves. The  moral  elevation  and  moral  debasement  of 
the  individual  appear  to  be  confounded  with  the  merits 
and  offenses  of  the  group  to  which  the  individual  be- 
longs. If  the  community  sins,  its  guilt  is  much  more 
than  the  sum  of  the  offenses  committed  by  its  members ; 
the  crime  is  a  corporate  act,  and  extends  in  its  conse- 
quences to  many  more  persons  than  have  shared  in  its 
actual  perpetration.  If  on  the  other  hand,  the  individ- 
ual is  conspicuously  guilty,  it  is  his  children,  his  kins- 
folk, his  tribesmen,  or  his  fellow-citizens  who  suffer  with 
him,  and  sometimes  for  him.  It  thus  happens  that  the 
ideas  of  moral  responsibility  and  retribution  often  seem 
to  be  more  clearly  reahzed  at  very  ancient  than  at  more 
advanced  periods,  for  as  the  family  group  is  immortal, 
amd  its  liability  to  punishment  indefinite,  the  primitive 
mind  is  not  perplexed  by  the  questions  which  become 
troublesome  as  soon  as  the  individual  is  conceived  as 
altogether  separate  from  the  group."  (Ancient  Law, 
pp.  121-123.) 

It  may  be  said  accordingly  that  the  whole  Old  Tes- 
tament Theology  in  the  direction  just  now  indicated 
received  its  mould  in  the  Patriarchal  System,  in  the 
thoughts,  feelings,  associations,  and  customs  which  in- 
hered in  that  system,  the  Holy  Ghost,  as  I  believe,  in- 
spiring the  use  thus  made  of  that  mould.  And  this, 
let  me   add,    incidentally   furnishes  a  strong    and   valid 


CIVILIZATION    AND    DOGMATIC   THEOLOGY.  65 

argument  for  the  antiquity  of  the  Pentateuch  as  against 
the  theories  of  Kuenen  and  his  school,  which  would 
bring  down  these  books,  on  which  the  patriarchal  im- 
press is  so  vivid,  into  a  period  when  such  an  impress 
would  "have  been  impossible.  A  more  stupendous  anach- 
ronism Kuenenism  itself  has  never  imagined.  Another 
instance  out  of  the  New  Testament.  We  all  know 
what  a  significant  and  precious  feature  of  the  Pauline 
Theology  is  the  doctrine  of  Adoption.  But  this  con- 
ception, if  so  high  an  authority  as  the  historian  Merivale 
be  accepted,  must  have  come  to  the  Apostle  out  of  the 
Roman  Civilization.  "Once  more,"  says  Merivale,  **I 
would  remark  the  interesting  analogy  St.  Paul  suggests 
in  describing  our  relation  as  believers  to  our  heavenly 
Father,  as  that  of  sons  by  adoption.  The  process  of 
legal  adoption,  by  which  the  chosen  heir  became  en- 
titled through  the  performance  of  certain  stated  ce're- 
monies,  the  execution  of  certain  formulas,  not  only  to 
the  reversion  of  the  property,  but  to  the  civil  status,  to 
the  burdens  as  well  as  the  rights  of  the  adopted  —  be- 
came, as  it  were,  his  other  self,  one  with  him,  identified 
with  him :  —  this  too  is  a  Roman  principle  peculiar  at 
this  time  to  the  Romans,  unknown  I  believe  to  the 
Greeks,  unknown  to  all  appearance  to  the  Jews,  as  it 
certainly  is  not  found  in  the  legislation  of  Moses,  nor 
mentioned  anywhere  as  a  usage  among  the  children  of 
the  elder  covenant.  We  have  ourselves  but  a  faint 
conception  of  the  force  with  which  such  an  illustration 
would  speak  to  one  familiar  with  the  Roman  practice; 
how  it  would  serve  to  impress  upon  him  the  assurance 
that  the  adopted  son  of  God  becomes  in  a  peculiar 
and  intimate  sense,  one  with  the  heavenly  Father,  one 
in  essence  and  in  spirit,  though  not  in  flesh  and  blood." 
(See  further  Merivale,  Civilization  of  the  Roman  Empire, 
Lecture  iv.  pp.  98  seq.) 


66  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Here  again  the  Roman  Law  furnishes  the  external 
mould  of  the  spiritual  truth  revealed  to  the  Apostle 
by  the  Holy  Ghost.  So  of  Heirship,  Tutelage,  Re- 
demption, Testation  and  other  important  facts  of 
Revelation  ;  the  formal  element  in  these  conceptions 
was  largely  furnished  by  the  civilization  of  the  day. 

But  as  we  pass  on  to  Theology  proper  as  a  human 
development  the  influence  of  civilization  becomes  more 
definite  and  decisive.  Without  attempting  anything 
like  an  exhaustive  classification  of  the  modifications  in- 
troduced by  civilization,  which  would  require  a  volume — 
let  me  single  out  a  few  of  the  more  significant  illustra- 
tions which  have  suggested  themselves  in  a  somewhat 
hasty  consideration  of  the  subject. 

On  the  very  threshold  of  the  question,  we  encounter 
the  fact  of  Race,  so  important  in  producing  the  varieties 
of  civilization.  The  influence  of  Race  in  the  production 
of  various  types  of  Theology  is  universally  recognized. 
Dr.  Shedd,  for  example,  in  common  with  all  historians 
of  doctrine,  speaks  of  a  Grecian  anthropology,  and  of 
a  Latin  anthropology.  Milman,  in  the  Introduction  of 
his  great  work  et  passim,  makes  mention  of  an  Oriental 
Christianity,  a  Greek  Christianity,  a  Latin  Christianity, 
a  Teutonic  Christianity. 

The  following  are  some  of  the  expressions  he  uses: 
* '  Christianity  was  almost  from  the  first  a  Greek  religion. " 
**  Oriental  influences  even  from  the  remoter  East, 
worked  into  its  doctrine,  and  into  its  system."  ''Greek 
Christianity  could  not  but  be  affected  both  in  its  doc- 
trinal progress,  and  in  its  polity,  by  its  Greek  origin." 
**  Greek  Christianity  was  insatiably  inquisitive,  spec- 
ulative. Confident  in  the  inexhaustible  copiousness  and 
the  fine  precision  of  its  language,  it  endured  no  limitation 
to  its  curious  investigations.  As  each  great  question 
was  settled  or  worn  out,  it  was  still  ready  to   propose 


<:IVILIZATI0N    AND    DOGMATIC   THEOLOGY.  ^1 

new  one^.*'  *'0n  most  speculative  points  this  [Latin] 
Theology  had  left  to  the  Greek  controversialists,  to 
argue  out  the  endless  transcendental  questions  of  re- 
ligion, and  contented  herself  with  resolutely  embracing 
the  results,  which  she  fixed  in  her  inflexible  theory  of 
doctrine.  The  only  controversy  which  violently  dis- 
turbed the  Western  Church,  was  the  practical  one,  on 
which  the  East  looked  almost  with  indifference,  the 
origin  and  motive  principle  of  human  action,  grace  and 
free  will.  This  from  Augustine  to  Luther  and  Janse- 
nius,  was  the  interminable,  still  reviving  problem." 

"The  characteristic  of  Latin  Christianity  was  that  of 
the  old  Latin  world — a  firm  and  even  obstinate  adhe- 
rence to  legal  form,  whether  of  traditionary  usage  or 
written  statute ;  the  strong  assertion  of,  and  the  sworn 
subordination  to,  authority.  It  was  the  Roman  Empire 
again  extended  over  Europe  by  an  universal  code  and 
a  provincial  government ;  by  a  hierarchy  of  religious 
praetors,  or  proconsuls,"  etc.  ''Latin  Christianity 
maintained  its  unshaken  dominion  until  what  I  venture 
to  call  Teutonic  Christianity,  aided  by  the  invention  of 
paper  and  of  printing,  asserted  its  independence,  threw 
off  the  great  mass  of  traditionary  religion,  and  out  of 
the  Bible  summoned  forth  a  more  simple  faith." 

**  Christianity  became  a  vast  influence,  working  irregu- 
larly on  individual  minds,  rather  than  a  great  social 
system,  etc.  Its  multiplicity  and  variety  rather  than  its 
unity  was  the  manifestation  of  its  life,"  etc.  And  in  a 
note  he  calls  attention  to  the  fact  on  which  Macaulay 
had  already  animadverted,  ''that  wherever  the  Teutonic 
is  the  groundwork  of  the  language,  the  Reformation 
either  is,  or  has  been  dominant ;  wherever  Latin,  Latin 
Christianity  has  retained  its  ascendency."  (Latin  Chris- 
tianity I.,  pp.   19  seq.) 

Professor  Kellogg  anticipates  important  modifications 


68  LLEWELYN    lOAN  EVANS, 

of  current  theological  systems   from   the  Christianized 
intellect  of  the  Hindus  and  other  Orientals. 

When  we  pass  on  to  the  influence  of  Government  and 
Social  Organization  we  find  striking  illustrations  of  this. 
Who  can  fail  to  recognize  the  deep  and  lasting  impres- 
sion which  has  been  made  both  on  the  reason  and  the 
imagination  of  Christendom  by  the  vast  colossus  of  the 
Roman  Empire  ?  Take,  as  one  trace  of  it,  the  Civitas 
Dei,  of  Augustine,  which  Milman  describes  as  ''the 
first  complete  Christian  Theology,"  (History  of  Christi- 
anity, Book  HI.,  Chap.  lo,)  and  which,  in  Dr.  Shedd's 
judgment,  "merits  the  study  of  the  modern  theologian 
more  than  any  other  single  treatise  of  the  Ancient 
Church."  No  one  can  read  this  "funeral  oration  of 
the  ancient  society,  and  gratulatory  panegyric  on  the 
birth  of  the  new"  without  feeling  at  once  how  pro- 
foundly the  vision  of  the  Iron  Empire  had  fascinated 
the  imagination  of  that  extraordinary  genius,  who,  more 
than  any  other  uninspired  thinker,  has  shaped  the  theo- 
logical thought  of  the  centuries.  Nor  is  it  on  the  Cath- 
olic Theology  alone  that  Rome  has  left  its  trace.  Ma- 
theson,  in  his  "Growth  of  the  Spirit  of  Christianity," 
describes  its  influence  in  another  direction.  "The 
child-Hfe  of  Chistianity,"  he  says,  "had  looked  upon 
the  Roman  Empire,  and  had  seen  in  it  a  grand  ideal  of 
earthly  greatness.  It  beheld,  in  the  Empire  of  Rome, 
what  the  followers  of  Confucius  had  beheld  in  the  Em- 
pire of  China — an  image  of  changeless  power,  incapable 
of  increase,  or  of  diminution,  unable  to  advance  with 
ages,  or  to  adapt  itself  to  the  exigencies  of  men — a 
power  which  was  weak  through  its  very  absoluteness. 

Hence  to  the  child-life  of  Christianity,  the  grandest  thing 
in  the  world  became  the  thought  of  changelessness ;  of 
an  existence  so  self-contained  and  so  self-sufficient,  that 
it  never  desired  to  pass  out  of  itself.     Its  conception  of 


CIVILIZATION    AND    DOGMATIC   THEOLOGY.  69 

God  became  the  conception  of  a  Roman  Emperor  in  the 
heavens,  exalted  above  all  his  followers,  as  the  master 
is  exalted  above  the  servant,  and  only  related  to  his 
creatures  as  he  who  commands  is  related  to  those  who 
obey.  The  God  in  whom  man  lives,  and  moves,  and 
has  his  being,  passed  away  from  the  heart  of  Christen- 
dom, and  in  his  room  there  was  enthroned  in  that  heart 
the  image  of  a  God  in  the  air,  separate  from  His  works, 
isolated  from  His  creatures,  solitary  by  His  very  change- 
lessness,  and  changeless  by  His  perpetual  solitude. 
This  is  the  creed  which  has  come  down  to  us  by  the 
name  of  Sabellianism — the  worship  of  a  will  that  is  above 
every  will,  and  of  a  power  that  can  not  bend."  (Vol. 
I.,  p.  208.)  He  finds  a  correspondent  trace  of  the  same 
influence  in  Arianism.  Speaking  of  the  influence  ex- 
erted upon  Christianity  by  the  Pagan  world,  he  remarks : 
"Hitherto  that  influence  had  been  chiefly  ritual,  and 
this,  as  we  have  seen,  was  not  of  necessity  demoraliz- 
ing ;  but  it  was  now  extending  itself  into  the  sphere  of 
theology.  We  have  said  that  the  creed  of  Sabellianism 
was  an  exaggerated  Roman  Empire ;  it  was  in  strict 
conformity  with  this,  that  the  Christ  of  Arianism  should 
be  an  exaggerated  Roman  minister.  Such  is  indeed 
the  thought  which  lies  behind  the  system, — the  idea 
of  a  man  who  is  the  favorite  of  his  sovereign,  and  who, 
through  the  favor,  has  been  exalted  to  the  similitude  of 
a  king  ;  who  has  been  commissioned  to  act  as  his  mas- 
ter's deputy,  to  issue  his  laws,  to  receive  his  tribute,  even 
to  punish  and  to  pardon  in  his  name.  The  prevalence 
of  such  a  belief  demonstrates  how  completely  the  mind 
of  Christendom  had  been  Romanized — how  entirely  the 
pagan  ideal  had  taken  possession  of  the  heart  of  Christi- 
anity."    (Ibid,  pp.  210,  211,  and  cf  p.  235.) 

Most  decisive  of  all  is  the  influence  of  Roman  Im- 
perialism  on   the    Papal   development   of  Christianity. 


yO  LLEWELYN    lOAN   EVANS. 

This  is  seen  most  conspicuously  of  course  in  the  orga- 
nization of  the  Church.  But  it  has  also  exerted  an  im- 
portant modification  on  its  doctrine.  Caesarism  disci- 
plined itself  in  the  Papacy.  The  Papacy  is  maintained 
by  the  principle  of  authority.  The  logical  sequel  of 
authority  is  scholasticism,  and  the  entire  structure  of 
Romish  Theology. 

In  this  connection  I  may  refer  to  the  influence  of 
Law,  and  in  particular  of  the  Roman  Jurisprudence  on 
Theology.  Merivale  says  of  the  ancient  Roman  Law: 
''The  law  of  Rome  was  already  a  pedagogue,  leading 
the  nations  unto  Christ,  even  before  Christ  Himself  had 
appeared  in  the  world  and  held  up  to  its  admiration  the 
principles  of  His  CathoHc  Jurisprudence."  (Conversion 
of  the  Rom.  Empire,  Lect.  IV.  p.  94.)  Sir  Henry  Maine 
says:  "Politics,  Moral  Philosophy,  and  even  Theology, 
found  in  the  Roman  Law  not  only  a  vehicle  of  expression, 
but  a  nidus  in  which  some  of  their  profoundest  inquiries 
were  nourished  into  maturity."  "  To  the  cultivated  citi- 
zen of  Africa,  of  Spain,  of  Gaul,  and  of  Northern  Italy, 
it  was  jurisprudence  and  jurisprudence  only,  which  stood 
in  the  place  of  poetry  and  history,  of  philosophy  and 
science.  So  far  then  from  there  being  anything  myste- 
rious in  the  palpably  legal  complexions  of  the  earliest 
efforts  of  Western  thought,  it  would  rather  be  astonish- 
ing if  it  had  assumed  any  other  hue.  I  can  only  express 
my  surprise  at  the  scantiness  of  the  attention  which  has 
been  given  to  the  difference  between  Western  ideas  and 
Eastern  caused  by  the  presence  of  a  new  ingredient.  It 
is  precisely  because  the  influence  of  jurisprudence  be- 
gins to  be  powerful,  that  the  foundation  of  Constanti- 
nople, and  the  subsequent  separation  of  the  Western 
Empire  from  the  Eastern  are  epochs  in  philosophical 
history.  Anybody  who  knows  what  Roman  jurispru- 
dence is  as  actually  practiced  by  the  Romans,  and  who 


CIVILIZATION   AND    DOGMATIC  THEOLOGY.  /I 

will  observe  in  what  characteristics  the  earliest  Western 
philosophy  and  theology  differ  from  the  phases  of  that 
which  preceded  them,  may  be  safely  left  to  pronounce 
what  was  the  new  element  which  had  begun  to  pervade 
and  govern  speculation.  The  part  of  Roman  Law  which 
has  had  most  extensive  influence  on  foreign  subjects  of 
inquiry  has  been  the  Law  of  Obligation,  or  what  comes 
nearly  to  the  same  thing,  of  Contract  and  Delict."  He 
shows  the  influence  of  the  Roman  Law  in  this  particu- 
lar on  political  and  moral  philosophy,  especially  in  the 
Catholic  Church. 

Again  he  says :  '  *  Few  things  in  the  history  of  spec- 
ulation are  more  impressive  than  the  fact  that  no  Greek- 
speaking  people  has  ever  felt  itself  seriously  perplexed 
by  the  great  question  of  Free-Will  and  Necessity.  I  do 
not  pretend  to  offer  any  summary  explanation  of  this, 
but  it  does  not  seem  an  irrelevant  suggestion  that  nei- 
ther the  Greek,  nor  any  society  speaking  and  thinking 
in  their  language  ever  showed  the  smallest  capacity  for 
producing  a  philosophy  of  law.  Legal  science  is  a  Ro- 
man creation,  and  the  problem  of  free-will  arises  when 
we  contemplate  a  metaphysical  conception  under  a  legal 
aspect.  .  .  .  But  the  problem  of  Free-Will  was  theolog- 
ical before  it  became  philosophical,  and  if  its  terms 
have  been  affected  by  jurisprudence,  it  will  be  because 
jurisprudence  has  made  itself  felt  in  Theology.  The 
great  point  of  inquiry  which  is  here  suggested  has  never 
been  satisfactorily  elucidated.  What  has  to  be  deter- 
mined is  whether  jurisprudence  has  ever  served  as  the 
medium  through  which  theological  principles  have  been 
viewed;  whether  by  supplying  a  peculiar  language,  a 
peculiar  mode  of  reasoning,  and  a  peculiar  solution  of 
many  of  the  problems  of  life,  it  has  ever  opened  new 
channels  in  which  theological  speculation  could  flow  out 
and  expand  itself." 


72  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

I  can  not  now  cite  in  full  the  answer  given  to  this 
question.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  in  this  eminent  writer's 
judgment  the  interest  shown  by  the  Western  Church  in 
the  doctrines  of  '^  the  nature  of  Sin  and  its  transmission 
by  inheritance — the  debt  owed  by  man  to  its  vicarious 
satisfaction — the  necessity  and  sufficiency  of  the  Atone- 
ment— above  all  the  apparent  antagonism  between  Free- 
Will  and  the  Divine  Providence  " — is  to  be  "accounted 
for  by  the  fact  that  in  passing  from  the  East  to  the 
West  theological  speculation  had  passed  from  a  climate 
of  Greek  metaphysics  to  a  climate  of  Roman  law.  For 
some  centuries  before  the  controversies  rose  into  over- 
whelming importance,  all  the  intellectual  activity  of  the 
Western  Romans  had  been  expended  on  jurisprudence 
exclusively.  It  was  impossible  that  they  should  not  se- 
lect from  the  questions  indicated  by  the  Christian  rec- 
ords those  which  had  some  affinity  with  the  order  of 
speculations  to  which  they  were  accustomed,  and  that 
their  manner  of  dealing  with  them  should  borrow  some- 
thing from  their  forensic  habits.  Almost  any  body  who 
has  knowledge  enough  of  Roman  law  to  appreciate  the 
Roman  penal  system,  the  Roman  theory  of  the  obliga- 
tions established  by  Contract  or  Delict,  the  Roman  view 
of  Debts,  and  of  the  modes  of  incurring,  extinguishing, 
and  transmitting  them,  the  Roman  notion  of  the  con- 
tinuance of  individual  existence  by  Universal  Succession, 
may  be  trusted  to  say  whence  arose  the  frame  of  mind 
to  which  the  problems  of  Western  theology  proved  so 
congenial,  whence  came  the  phraseology  in  which  these 
problems  were  stated,  and  whence  the  description  of 
reasoning  employed  in  their  solution."  (Ancient  Law, 
Chap.  IX.) 

Note  that  here  the  influence  of  civilization  has  been 
to  emphasize,  or,  as  Maine  expresses  it,  to  ** select" 
those  elements  of  theologic  truth  as  set  forth  in  Scripture 


CIVILIZATION    AND    DOGMATIC    THEOLOGY.  73 

in  which  the  conceptions  of  Justice,  Penalty,  Law,  Gov- 
ernment are  most  conspicuous.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  the  views  of  Hugo  Grotius,  no  less  distinguished  as 
a  jurist  than  as  a  theologian,  the  influence  of  whose 
discussions  on  modern  theology  it  would  be  interesting 
to  consider. 

Feudalism  is  another  important  institution  of  a  former 
civilization,  the  influence  of  which  on  Theology  may 
be  traced  in  various  directions.  It  had  much  to  do 
for  example  with  consoHdating  the  Roman  hierarchy, 
confirming  the  principle  of  authority  by  enforcing  the 
vassalage  of  conscience  and  will  to  ecclesiastical  lords. 
Out  of  this  again  has  grown  the  tendency,  so  charac- 
teristic of  a  feudalistic  Church  organization  to  establish 
in  practice  an  esoteric  theology  for  the  ruling  class, 
and  an  exoteric  theology,  largely  tinctured  with  super- 
stition, for  the  masses. 

A  different  influence  of  Feudalism  works  through  the 
complexity  of  social  structure  which  it  introduces,  and 
the  consequent  necessity  of  preserving  the  balance  of 
classes  and  interests.  The  most  conspicuous  example 
of  this  tendency  is  England,  which  has  been  called  the 
Herculaneum  of  Feudalism.  The  English  Constitution 
is  a  growth,  the  result  of  a  series  of  adjustments  in  the 
effort  to  maintain  the  social  equilibrium.  In  like  man- 
ner Anglicanism,  the  typical  Anglican  Theology,  is 
largely  a  structure  of  theological  expedients  and  com- 
promises. 

The  same  causes  which  have  given  to  the  civil  consti- 
tution its  agglomerative  character  have  in  consequence 
of  the  union  of  Church  and  State,  and  of  the  character- 
istics and  habits  of  the  English  people,  made  the  An- 
glican Theology  a  dogmatic  agglomeration.  The  hie- 
rarchism  of  Laud,  the  Puritanism  of  Hooper,  the  Calvin- 
ism of  Cranmer,  the  Arminianism  of  Jackson,  the  Mod- 


74  LLEWELYN    lOAN   EVANS. 

eratism  of  Jewell,  the  Latitudlnarianlsm  of  Chilling- 
worth,  the  Platonism  of  Cudworth,  the  Utilitarianism  of 
Paley — all  have  deposited  their  typ^al  forms  of  thought 
in  this  great  Herculaneum. 

But  leaving  the  Past,  let  us  come  to  the  considera- 
tion of  theological  influences  which  we  may  more  distinct- 
ly recognize  in  the  civilization  of  the  Present.  And  here 
I  shall  be  constrained  to  compress  the  discussion  into  a 
mere  outline  of  points. 

One  marked  characteristic  of  civilization,  as  we  know 
it,  is  the  stimulus  which  it  gives  to  enterprise.  This 
produces  a  spirit  of  hopefulness.  Men  look  forward  to 
the  Future,  and  derive  their  inspiration  largely  from  it. 
In  times  of  stagnation  Christianity  becomes  largely  a 
Religion  of  the  Past.  The  Golden  Age  has  come  and 
gone.  The  Ideal  of  Christianity  lies  in  the  same  tomb 
wdth  the  Ages  of  Faith,  Tradition  rules  the  belief  of 
men,  prescription  stereotypes  their  worship.  Not  so 
when  civilization  excites  to  activity  and  enterprise.  The 
Ideal  of  Christianity,  as  of  humanity,  lies  in  a  glorified 
future.  This  necessarily  affects  Theology.  The  pres- 
tige of  traditional  dogma  wanes.  The  effort  is  made, 
consciously,  or  unconsciously,  to  bring  the  faith  of  the 
intellect  into  harmony  with  the  living  interests  and  as- 
pirations of  the  present. 

Again,  the  commercial  activities,  the  territorial  dis- 
coveries, the  international  intercourse,  and  the  enlarged 
acquaintance  with  various  types  of  religion  which  civil- 
ization develops,  influence  theology  in  more  than  one 
direction.  The  most  marked  effect  is  seen  in  the  in- 
creased culture  of  a  missionary  theology,  a  theology, 
to-wit,  possessed  of  these  characteristics:  i.  A  heartier 
and  more  practical  recognition  of  the  universalism  of 
Christianity;  and  2.  The  effort  to  discover  and  make 
prominent    those    characteristics    of     Christian    Truth 


CIVILIZATION    AND    DOGMATIC   THEOLOGY.  75 

which  are  needed  to  supply  the  vacua,  and  to  meet 
the  aspirations  of  heathendom.  The  modern  study  of 
Comparative  Religion  may  be  referred  to  as  an  out- 
growth of  the  wider  outlook  afforded  by  the  extension 
of  international  intercourse.  Closely  associated  with 
this  is  the  enlarged  sense  of  humanity,  the  intensified 
conception  of  the  brotherhood  of  the  race.  Not  long 
ago  Ecce  Homo  explained  the  secret  of  the  Christ  to  be 
the  enthusiasm  of  humanity.  Accepting  this — not  by 
any  means  as  the  whole  truth,  but  as  a  valuable  frac- 
tion of  it — we  may  be  prepared  to  find  that  any 
revival  of  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity  will  lead  to  a 
more  vivid  appreciation  of  the  Divine  Humanity  of 
Christ. 

A  notable  fraction  of  the  theology  of  our  day  has 
been  the  greater  prominence  given  to  Christology,  and 
the  more  loving  emphasis  placed  on  the  mediation  of 
The  Man  Christ  Jesus. 

It  is  a  striking  remark  of  Matheson's  that  Art  pre- 
pared the  way  for  the  Reformation  by  ''bringing  into 
prominence  that  element  which  had  been  long  neg- 
lected, the  vision  of  Christ's  humanity:  it  was  thus  to 
open  from  the  heart  of  man  a  door  of  direct  commun- 
ion with  the  life  of  God."  (Spirit  of  Christianity, 
Chapter  xxxvii.)  Herein  Art  interprets  the  yearning 
of  a  higher  civihzation  for  One  who  shall  realize  the 
perfect  Idea  of  Humanity. 

Civilization  tends  still  further  to  increase  the  material 
well-being  of  the  race.  It  introduces  prosperity  and 
luxury.  It  multiplies  the  means  of  enjoyment  and 
self-indulgence,  and  secures  a  large  immunity  from  the 
temporal  hardships  and  ills  of  a  less  perfect  social 
organization.  The  effects  of  such  prosperity  on  char- 
acter are  complex.  One  effect  will  be  greater  refine- 
ment  and    delic'acy    of  sensibility.     As   Lecky    says ; 


*j6  LLEWELYN    lOAN  EVANS. 

"Luxury  is  the  parent  of  art,  the  pledge  of  peace,  the 
creation  of  those  refined  tastes  and  deHcate  suscepti- 
biHties  that  have  done  so  much  to  soften  the  friction 
of  life."  This  temper  will  naturally  tend  to  soften  also 
the  rigors  of  those  theologies  in  which  the  pressure  of 
an  iron  logic  tends  to  crush  out  the  voices  of  the  heart. 
No  one  can  doubt  that  Calvinism  grows  sweeter  and 
gentler  with  the  years. 

On  the  other  side  luxury  or  even  physical  well-being 
tends  to  the  enervation  of  manhood,  and  the  relaxation 
of  fibre  both  of  intellect  and  will.  It  tends  to  effemi- 
nacy, sentimentality,  cowardice.  As  John  Stuart  Mill 
says:  ''There  is  in  the  more  opulent  classes  of  modern 
civilized  communities  much  more  of  the  amiable  and 
humane,  and  much  less  of  the  heroic.  .  .  .  There  has 
crept  over  the  refined  classes,  over  the  whole  class  of 
gentlemen  in  England  a  moral  effeminacy,  an  inapti- 
tude -for  every  kind  of  struggle.  .  .  .  This  torpidity 
and  cowardice,  as  a  general  characteristic,  is  new  in  the 
world  ;  but  (modified  by  the  different  temperaments  of 
different  nations),  it  is  a  natural  consequence  of  the 
progress  of  civilization."  (Dissertations  and  Discourses 
I.,  pp.  206-7.)  In  Theology  this  process  will  natural- 
ly show  itself  in  an  increase  of  sentimentality,  an  unman- 
ly shrinking  from  the  sterner  fractions  of  Divine  Truth. 
Hence,  in  large  measure  the  prevalence  in  modern  times 
of  that  emasculated  Theology  which  flatters  itself  with 
the  name  of  Liberalism. 

Not  a  few  of  the  characteristic  features  of  modern 
CiviHzation  are  due  to  the  growth  of  democratic  in- 
stitutions, and  the  prevalence  of  the  spirit  of  equal- 
ity and  individualism.  De  Tocqueville  has  to  some 
extent  endeavored  to  trace  the  influence  of  these 
agencies,  as  represented  in  American  Democracy,  on 
Religion  and  Faith.      The  following  are  some  of  his 


CIVILIZATION    AND    DOGMATIC   THEOLOGY.  'JJ 

conclusions  which  I  will  give  as  briefly  as  possible,  and 
substantially  in  his  own  words. 

a.  In  a  democracy  the  public  has  a  singular  power, 
for  it  does  not  persuade  to  certain  opinions,  but  enforces 
them  by  a  sort  of  enormous  pressure  of  the  minds  of  all 
upon  the  reason  of  each.  Everybody  in  the  United  States 
adopts  great  numbers  of  theories  upon  public  trust; 
and  if  we  look  to  it  very  narrowly,  it  will  be  perceived 
that  religion  herself  holds  sway  there  much  less  as  a 
doctrine  of  revelation  then  as  a  commonly  received 
opinion.  Dem.  in  Amen  ll.,  il.  In  other  words 
there  is  danger  in  a  democracy,  lest  the  tyranny  of  the 
majority  should  surreptitiously  substitute  itself  for  the 
authority  of  truth. 

h.  At  times  of  general  cultivation  and  equality,  the 
human  mind  consents  only  with  reluctance  to  adopt 
dogmatic  opinions,  and  feels  their  necessity  acutely 
only  in  spiritual  matters.  Ibid.  II.,  p.  25.  The  influ- 
ence of  democracy  then  will  be  to  restrict  dogmatic 
Theology  strictly  to  its  own  sphere,  to  exclude  all  ex- 
traneous elements. 

c.  Democracy  favors  the  idea  of  the  unity  of  man- 
kind, and  this  idea  constantly  leads  men  back  to  the 
idea  of  the  unity  of  the  Creator,  and  the  oneness  of 
the  way  to  heaven  (as  opposed  to  the  tracing  of  a  thou- 
sand private  roads  to  heaven).  Ibid,,  p.  26.  This 
would  seem  to  imply  that  in  Theology,  democracy  tends 
to  emphasize  the  absolute  impartiality  of  the  Divine 
dealings  with  men,  and  to  assign  fundamental  signifi- 
cance to  this  in  its  theodicy. 

d.  Nothing  is  more  repugnant  to  the  human  mind, 
in  an  age  of  equality,  than  the  idea  of  subjection  to 
forms.  Ibid.,  p.  28.  It  follows  that  so  far  forth,  dem- 
ocracy will  prove  favorable  to  simplicity,  that  type  of 


7S  LLEWELYN    lOAN   EVANS. 

faith  and  worship  which  it  is  the  spirit  and  aim  at  least 
of  Puritanism  to  reaHze  and  conserve. 

e.  De  Tocqueville  beheves  that  in  democratic  times 
the  human  mind  will  feel  attracted  towards  Pantheism. 
Ibid.,  35-36.  His  reasoning  on  this  head  is  more  subtle, 
however,  than  satisfying. 

/.  In  proportion  as  castes  disappear,  and  the  classes 
of  society  approximate,  as  new  facts  arise,  as  new 
truths  are  brought  to  light,  as  ancient  opinions  are 
dissipated,  and  others  take  their  place,  the  image  of  an 
ideal  but  always  fugitive  perfection  presents  itself  to 
the  human  mind.  Ibid.,  p.  37  seq.  It  follows  that 
that  type  of  Theology  will  prove  most  acceptable  to 
democratic  communities  which  most  fully  recognizes 
the  indefinite  perfectibility  of  man. 

g.  One  of  the  distinguishing  characteristics  of  a  dem- 
ocratic period  is  the  taste  which  all  men  then  have  for 
easy  success  and  present  enjoyment.  This  occurs  in 
the  pursuits  of  the  intellect  as  well  as  in  all  others. 
They  would  fain  succeed  brilliantly  and  at  once,  but 
they  would  be  dispensed  from  great  efforts  to  obtain 
success.  Ibid.,  p.  19.  On  this  side  the  theology  of 
democracies  seems  liable  to  be  shallow,  superficial,  brill- 
iant rather  than  solid,  a  pyrotechnic  blaze  of  novelties, 
rather  than  a  constellation  of  eternal  verities. 

Again,  Civilization  as  involving  the  growth  of  equality 
and  individualism,  and  the  more  general  dissemination 
of  culture,  enlarges  the  theological  influence  of  the  laity. 
While  education  was  mainly  confined  to  the  clergy, 
laymen  were  content  to  accept  with  docility  the  The- 
ological teachings  of  the  priesthood.  The  clergy  were 
the  experts,  the  professional  exponents  of  Theology. 
The  cobblers  of  secular  life  must  stick  to  their  last. 
Now  all  this  is  changed.  Theology  is  no  longer  a 
monopoly.      One   man    is  as   good  as  another,  and   a 


CIVILIZATION   AND    DOGMATIC    THEOLOGY.  7^ 

great  deal  better.     All  ways  lead  to  Rome;  all  ques- 
tions lead  to  Theology. 

Tyndall  discourses  about  the    doctrine  of   Creation 
Matthew   Arnold   writes    on    Literature    and   Dogma 
Gladstone  discusses  the  Course  of  Religious  Thought 
to  say  nothing  of  the  hosts  of  lesser    luminaries   that 
shed  their  lucubrations  at  every  cross-roads.    The  effect 
of  all   this   will    necessarily  be  two-fold.     On  the  one 
side  Theology  will  be  brought  into  closer  contact  wdth 
the  wider  thought   of  the  world.      It   will   take  cogni- 
zance  of  the    living   issues   of  the  day,  the    questions 
which  are  burning  in  men's  brains  and  hearts.     It  will 
be  lifted  in  a  measure  out  of  the  ruts,    liberated  from 
its  conventional  presentments,   its  stereotyped   phrase- 
ologies.     Fresh  combinations  of  truth  will  be  effected ; 
and  in  particular  its  practical  adaptations  will  be  more 
fully  developed. 

On  the  other  side  we  may  look  for  an  irruption  of 
crudities  and  superficialities.  The  caprices  of  individ- 
ualism will  set  at  defiance  the  solemn  consensus  of  the 
Church  Catholic.  The  abandonment  of  forms  and  con- 
fessions consecrated  by  the  baptismal  fire  of  a  thousand 
battles  for  God's  truth,  and  fragrant  with  the  faith  and 
devotion  of  centuries  may  occasion  a  drift  into  theolog- 
ical communism  and  anarchy.  Idiosyncrasies  and  ex- 
travagancies will  command  a  premium.  The  Athenian 
appetite  for  novelties  will  enlarge  the  market  for  spices 
from  Arabys  unblest  in  place  of  the  Bread  of  Life. 

Again  —  Civilization  through  its  commercial  and  in- 
dustrial activities  begets  a  practical  habit  of  mind.  Its 
temper,  if  not  its  philosophy,  is  utilitarian.  It  judges 
everything  by  its  values  and  results.  It  looks  with  con- 
tempt on  doctrinaires  and  theorists.  It  magnifies  utili- 
ties above  principles,  practical  ethics  above  speculative 
dogmatics.      ''The  industrial  character,"    says    Lecky, 


80  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

"is  eminently  practical.  It  leads  men  to  care  very  lit- 
tle about  principles,  and  very  much  about  results  ;  and 
this  habit  has  at  least  a  tendency  to  act  upon  theolog- 
ical judgments."  (Hist,  of  Rat.  II.,  p.  310.)  In  its 
remoter  issues  the  tendency  would  find  expression  in 
the  complete  secularization  of  thought  and  life,  which 
of  course  would  be  the  death  of  Theology.  But  when 
Theology  does  not  succumb  to  secularism  it  is  still  liable 
to  be  affected  by  it.  It  is  in  danger  of  depreciating  its 
transcendental  and  supernatural  factors.  In  the  effort  to 
be  practical  it  will  be  in  danger  of  drawing  more  upon 
the  world  of  society  for  its  material  than  on  the  Word 
of  God.  In  getting  up  a  Theology  for  the  market  place 
it  may  overlook  the  Theology  of  the  closet.  In  the  en- 
deavor to  fill  itself  with  plenty  of  human  nature  and  the 
life  that  now  is,  it  may  leave  out  what  is  represented  by 
the  terms  God  and  Eternity. — ''The  American  Minis- 
ters of  the  Gospel,"  says  De  Tocqueville,  ''do  not  at- 
tempt to  draw  or  to  fix  all  the  thoughts  of  man  upon 
the  life  to  come ;  they  are  willing  to  surrender  a  portion 
of  his  heart  to  the  cares  of  the  present ;  seeming  to  con- 
sider the  cares  of  this  world  as  important,  though  sec- 
ondary objects."     (II.  p.  31.) 

This  practical  tendency  indeed  is  not  necessarily  or 
wholly  unfavorable.  While  Theology  has  mainly  to  do 
with  truth  in  its  more  general,  and  what  I  may  call  its 
transcendental  relations,  it  has  also  a  most  important 
bearing  on  life  and  character.  A  Theology  which  did 
not  make  men  better  would  be  a  lie  and  a  curse.  On 
the  contrary  the  Theology  which  i7i  the  long  rim  pro- 
duces the  highest  manhood  has  every  presumption  in 
its  favor  as  the  best  Theology.  It  is  an  advantage 
therefore  to  be  suitably  animated  by  the  practical  motive. 
The  Theology  which  while  holding  to  the  transcendental 
pursues  the  useful,  which  realizes  its  mission  as  a  vital- 


CIVILIZATION    AND    DOGMATIC    THEOLOGY.  8l 

izing  and  energizing  power,  quickening  the  conscience, 
purifying  the  affections,  ennobHng,  beautifying  and  beat- 
ifying Hfe,  will  gain  proportionately  in  inward  fullness, 
depth  and  symmetry. 

Once  more,  the  spirit  of  Civilization  Is  irenlc.  Its  ten- 
dency is  to  harmonize  interests,  unite  activities,  concili- 
ate opposites.  It  bears  fruit  in  leagues,  alliances,  fede- 
rations, congresses,  points  forward  possibly  to  a  "  par- 
liament of  man,  a  federation  of  the  world."  It  thus  be- 
gets a  tolerant  temper.  Lecky  has  pointed  out  that  the 
secular  influences  of  Civilization,  pohtlcal  combinations 
and  enthusiasms,  the  enlargement  of  civil  and  political 
rights,  national  alliances,  are  adverse  to  sectarianism  and 
bigotry.      (Hist,  of  Rationalism  II,  p.   143.) 

So  with  commercial  intercourse  between  members  of 
different  creeds.  **When  men  have  once  realized  the 
truth  that  no  single  sect  possesses  a  monopoly,  either 
of  virtues  or  abilities — when  they  have  watched  the 
supporters  of  the  most  various  opinions  dogmatizing 
with  the  same  profound  convictions,  defending  their  be- 
lief with  the  same  energy  and  irradiating  It  with  the 
same  spotless  purity — when  they  have  learned  in  some 
degree  to  assume  the  standing  point  of  different  sects, 
to  perceive  the  aspect  from  which  what  they  had  once 
deemed  incongruous  and  absurd,  seems  harmonious  and 
coherent,  and  to  observe  how  all  the  features  of  the 
Intellectual  landscape  take  their  color  from  the  prejudice 
of  education,  and  shift  and  vary  according  to  the  point 
of  view  from  which  they  are  regarded  —  when,  above 
all,  they  have  begun  to  revere  and  love  for  their  moral 
qualities  those  from  whom  they  are  separated  by  their 
creed,  their  sense,  both  of  the  certainty  and  Importance 
of  their  destructive  tenets,  will  usually  be  Impaired, 
and  their  intolerance  towards  others  proportionately 
diminished."     (Lecky,  Hist,  of  Rat.  II.,  296.) 


82  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Under  such  influences  Theology  must  of  necessity 
become  irenic.  It  will  tend  towards  Catholicism,  rather 
than  sectarianism ;  it  will  become  cosmopolitan  rather 
than  insular.  Per  contra,  there  is  a  liability  on  this  side 
to  indefiniteness.  Like  a  political  platform  it  may  be- 
come so  comprehensive  as  to  be  meaningless.  The  great 
doctrinal  discriminations  on  which  so  much  often  de- 
pends may  be  obscured ;  a  hazy,  poetic  sentimentality 
may  be  encouraged;  the  "vague  Theology,"  which  a 
Chicago  pulpit  glorifies,  may  prevail,  in  whose  thin 
nebulosity  Christianity  itself  may  disappear. 

There  are  other  points  which  might  be  noted,  but  I 
must  stop.  I  will  close  with  the  bare  mention  of  a  few 
inferences. 

1.  Theology  like  the  world,  is  moving.  It  can  not 
stand  still.  The  forces  which  are  ever  acting  on  it 
make  this  impossible.  As  Dr.  Shedd  says:  ''Unceas- 
ing motion  from  a  given  point  through  several  stadia 
to  a  final  terminus,  is  a  characteristic,  belonging  as  in- 
separably to  the  history  of  Man,  or  the  history  of 
Doctrine,  as  to  that  of  any  physical  evolution  what- 
ever."    (Hist,  of  Doctrine  I.,  p.  8.) 

2.  This  onward  movement  is  not  one  of  uniform 
progress.  On  the  whole  the  movement  is  an  advance, 
but  in  its  particular  stages  we  shall  find  deflection,  or 
even  retrogression.  The  influences  of  an  advancing 
civilization,  as  we  have  seen,  are  complex,  generally 
favorable  to  true  progress,  but  not  seldom  unfavorable. 

3.  It  is  the  part  of  Christian  Teachers  to  know  the 
signs  of  the  times,  to  watch  the  tendencies  which  are 
at  work,  to  counteract  such  as  are  injurious,  to  en- 
courage those  which  are  beneficial,  and  in  harmony 
with  the  normal  development  of  Christian  doctrine. 

4.  It  behooves  them  to  cultivate  that  wise  conserva- 
tism which  will  protect  Doctrine  against  unauthorized 


CIVILIZATION    AND    DOGMATIC   THEOLOGY.  83 

innovation,  together  with  that  wise  progressivism  which 
will  save  it  from  stagnation.  The  communism  which 
respects  nothing,  and  the  Bourbonism  which  learns 
nothing,  are  alike  to  be  eschewed. 

5.  It  becomes  necessary  to  inquire  into  the  theolog- 
ical legacies  of  former  civilizations  that  we  may  see 
how  truly  they  represent  the  Scripture  proportion  of 
faith,  and  how  far  they  are  suited  to  the  peculiar  re- 
quirements of  the  present 

6.  The  only  sure  criterion  of  doctrinal  Truth  amidst 
the  fluctuations  of  History  is  the  Word  of  God. 
The  nearer  Theology  keeps  to  the  Bible  as  its  base 
line,  the  more  it  centers  itself  in  Christ,  the  personal 
Logos,  the  sounder  will  be  its  contents,  the  truer  will 
be  its  form,  the  healthier  will  be  its  growth,  and  the 
better  prepared  will  it  be  to  meet,  and  to  be  suitably 
affected  by  whatever  influences  may  operate  upon  it. 

November  8.  1880. 


IV. 

FISKE  ON  THE  DESTINY  OF  MAN. 

We  do  not  regard  it  as  the  function  of  this  Friday 
evening  Lectureship  to  pass  the  universe  under  review. 
There  will  appear  however,  from  time  to  time,  move- 
ments, facts,  utterances,  so  notable  and  significant, 
especially  in  their  bearings  on  religious  and  theological 
thought,  that  we  shall  do  well  to  consider  them. 

The  other  day  I  chanced  to  pick  up  a  little  book, 
just  out,  to  which  I  have  concluded  to  call  your 
attention.  The  author  is  John  Fiske,  a  gentleman  of 
some  hterary  and  scientific  fame,  of  whom  you  have 
all  heard.  The  title  is  "The  Destiny  of  Man,  viewed 
in  the  Light  of  His  Origin."  It  grew  out  of  an  ad- 
dress, the  past  summer,  before  the  Concord  School  of 
Philosophy. 

As  Christian  thinkers,  we  cannot  help  being  con- 
cerned with  the  subject  under  discussion.  For  several 
years  past  the  theory  of  evolution  has  been  a  question 
of  living  interest.  We  have  been  asking :  is  there  any 
truth  in  it?  If  so,  how  much?  Where  does  it  he? 
How  does  it  affect  our  theology? 

During  the  past  few  weeks  we  have  seen  the  South- 
ern Presbyterian  Church  agitated  by  the  question,  in 
connection  with  the  instruction  in  one  of  their  theolo- 
gical seminaries.  We  know  not  how  soon,  in  one  form 
(84) 


FISKE    ON    THE    DESTINY    OF    MAN.  85 

or  another,  the  issue  may  be  upon  us.  The  Higher 
Criticism  excitement  has  pretty  well  died  out.  Our 
ecclesiastical  Don  Quixotes,  who  started  out  so  valiantly 
on  their  somewhat  spavined  but  fire-breathing  Rosinan- 
tes,  have  discovered  nothing  more  formidable  in  that 
part  of  the  field  than  one  or  two  windmills,  rather  long 
in  the  arms,  perhaps,  but  comparatively  harmless. 
They  may  find  more  exciting  game  in  some  Dr.  Wood- 
row,  north  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line.  Indeed,  I 
find  that  a  brother  professor  in  a  [certain]  seminary, 
has  found  it  prudent  to  put  the  notes  of  his  theological 
lectures  at  the  service  of  one  of  the  editorial  watch- 
dogs of  orthodoxy. 

This  little  book  has  some  special  points  of  interest. 
The  author,  without  being  a  great  man,  or  a  profound 
thinker,  is  an  accomplished  scholar,  and  an  able  writer. 
He  is  an  ardent  admirer  of  Darwin,  and  an  enthusiastic 
disciple  of  Herbert  Spencer.  He  has  come  to  be  the 
recognized  exponent  of  Spencer's  philosophy,  in  our 
country.  And  it  must  be  said  of  him,  that  he  is  not 
a  mere  echo  of  his  master.  While  his  forte  is  expo- 
sition, he  is  still  an  independent  expositor.  Mr.  Darwin 
has  complimented  him  by  saying,  *  *  I  never  in  my  life 
read  ,so  lucid  an  exposition"  (and  therefore,  so  lucid  a 
thinker). 

The  Saturday  Review  characterizes  his  work  on  Cos- 
mic Philosophy  as  the  most  important  contribution, 
made  by  America,  to  the  evolutionary  philosophy. 
The  London  Academy  goes  further,  designating  it  as 
the  most  important  contribution  yet  made  by  America 
to  philosophical  literature."  The  New  York  Graphic 
puts  him  on  the  same  plane  of  philosophical  eminence 
with  Jonathan  Edwards.  While  we  may  not  concur 
in  the  very  high  estimate  of  him  which  these  com- 
mendations imply ;  we  may  at  least  assume  that  Mr, 


86  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Fiske  is  a  competent  witness  to  the   positions  of  Dar- 
winism and  Spencerianism. 

On  evolution,  he  is  an  authority.  He  has  made  his 
own  contribution  to  the  theory,  especially  in  the  de- 
partment of  sociology. 

His  position  is  in  some  respects  unique  and  interest- 
ing. While  a  radical  and  thorough-going  evolutionist, 
he  refuses  to  be  a  materialist.  How  far  he  is  con- 
sistent will  be  seen  presently.  The  fact  remains  that 
he  rejects  the  materialistic  view  of  man  as  to  his  origin, 
his  nature,  and  his  destiny. 

His  position  is  also  peculiar,  in  that,  while  as  a 
Spencerian,  he  is  constrained  to  be  theoretically  an 
Agnostic,  yet,  he  holds  steadfastly  to  the  Kantian 
trilogy :  God,  Conscience  and  Immortality. 

This  little  book  may  be  viewed,  accordingly,  as  in 
some  respects  the  last  word  of  the  best  evolution.  It 
represents  the  nearest  approach  which  a  naturahstic 
evolution  has  made  as  yet  to  the  theistic  position.  It 
almost  reads  like  an  overture  of  peace  to  the  party  of 
faith,  and  the  adherents  of  a  spiritualistic  philosophy. 
As  such  it  challenges  our  scrutiny,  and  it  certainly 
merits  a  fair,  respectful,  discriminating  examination. 

As  regards  the  evolutionary  teachings  of  the  book, 
they  are  as  thorough  and  radical  as  the  most  extreme 
evolutionists  could  desire.  "As  we  examine  the  rec- 
ords of  past  life  upon  our  globe,"  says  Mr.  Fiske, 
"and  study  the  mutual  relations  of  the  living  things 
that  still  remain,  it  appears  that  the  higher  forms  of 
life — including  man  himself — are  the  modified  descend- 
ants of  lower  forms.  Zoologically  speaking,  man  can 
no  longer  be  regarded  as  a  creature  apart  by  himself. 
We  cannot  erect  an  order  on  purpose  to  contain  him, 
as  Cuvier  tried  to  do  ;  we  cannot  even  make  a  separate 
family  for  him.     Man  is  not  only  a  vertebrate,  a  mam-* 


FISKE   ON    THE    DESTINY    OF  MAN.  87 

mal,  and  a  primate,  but  he  belongs,  as  a  genus,  to  the 
catarrhine  family  of  apes.  And  just  as  lions,  leopards, 
and  lynxes — different  genera  of  the  cat  family — are 
descended  from  a  common  stock  of  carnivora,  back  to 
which  we  may  also  trace  the  pedigrees  of  dogs,  hyenas, 
bears  and  seals  ;  so  the  various  genera  of  platyrrhine 
and  catarrhine  apes,  including  man,  are  doubtless  de- 
scended from  a  common  stock  of  primates,  back  to 
which  we  may  also  trace  the  converging  pedigrees  of 
monkeys  and  lemurs,  until  their  ancestry  becomes  in- 
distinguishable from  that  of  rabbits  and  squirrels.  Such 
is  the  conclusion  to  which  the  scientific  world  has  come 
within  a  quarter  of  a  century  from  the  pubHcation  of 
Mr.  Darwin's  'Origin  of  Species,'  and  there  is  no 
more  reason  for  supposing  that  this  conclusion  will  ever 
be  gainsaid  than  for  supposing  that  the  Copernican 
Astronomy  will  sometimes  be  overthrown,  and  the 
concentric  spheres  of  Dante's  heaven  re-instated  in  the 
minds  of  men."  (p.  20/".)  Again,  on  the  argument 
from  design,  he  says,  (p.  22/),  ''Those  countless 
adaptations  of  means  to  ends  in  nature,  which  since 
the  time  of  Voltaire  and  Paley  we  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  cite  as  evidences  of  creative  design,  have 
received  at.  the  hands  of  Mr.  Darwin  a  very  different 
interpretation.  The  lobster's  powerful  claw,  the  butter- 
fly's gorgeous  tints,  the  rose's  delicious  fragrance,  the 
architectural  instinct  of  the  bee,  the  astonishing  struc- 
ture of .  the  orchid,  are  no  longer  explained  as  the 
results  of  contrivance.  That  simple  but  wasteful  pro- 
cess of  survival  of  the  fittest,  through  which  such  mar- 
vellous things  have  come  into  being,  has  little  about  it 
that  is  analogous  to  the  ingenuity  of  human  art.  The 
infinite  and  eternal  Power  which  is  thus  revealed  in  the 
physical  life  of  the  universe  seems  in  no  wise  akin  to 
the  human  soul,  '  The  idea  of  beneficent  purpose  seems 


88  LLEWELYN  lOAN  EVANS. 

for  the  moment  to  be  excluded  from  nature,  and  a 
blind  process,  known  as  Natural  Selection,  is  the  deity 
that  slumbers  not  nor  sleeps.  Reckless  of  good  and 
evil,  it  brings  forth  at  once  the  mother's  tender  love 
for  her  infant,  and  the  horrible  teeth  of  the  ravenine 
shark,  and  to  its  creative  indifference  the  one  is  as  good 
as  the  other.  In  spite  of  these  appalling  arguments, 
the  man  of  science,  urged  by  the  single-hearted  pur- 
pose to  ascertain  the  truth,  be  the  consequences  what 
they  may,  goes  quietly  on  and  finds  that  the  terrible 
theory  must  be  adopted  ;  the  fact  of  man's  consanguin- 
ity with  dumb  beasts  must  be  admitted." 

It  will  be  noted  that  in  the  citation  just  given,  "the 
creative  indifference  "  of  the  power  of  Natural  Selec- 
tion is  spoken  of.  So  throughout  '  creation  '  seems  to 
be  with  our  author  another  word  for  *  evolution,'  the 
production  by  secondary  causes  of  new  forms  or  results. 
The  difference  between  man  and  other  animals,  resolves 
itself  ultimately,  we  are  taught,  into  a  difference  of 
degree.  His  language  is:  "Not  only  in  the  world  of 
organic  life,  but  throughout  the  known  universe,  the 
doctrine  of  evolution  regards  differences  in  kind  as  due 
to  the  gradual  accumulation  of  differences  in  degree," 
p.  35.  And  again,  p.  53:  "In  the  direct  line  of  our 
ancestry  it  only  needed  that  the  period  of  infancy 
should  be  sufficiently  prolonged,  in  order  that  a  crea- 
ture should  at  length  appear,  endowed  with  the  teach- 
ableness, the  individuality,  and  the  capacity  for  progress 
which  are  the  peculiar  prerogatives  of  fully-developed 
man."  In  the  career  of  the  mastodon,  hipparion,  sabre- 
toothed  lion,  dryopithecus,  and  other  phenomena  of 
the  Miocene  age  we  find  "the  germ  of  all  that  is  pres- 
ent in  humanity."  We  have,  somewhere,  half-way 
between  .brute  and  man,  a  "half-human  man." 


FISKE    ON    THE    DESTINY    OF    MAN.  89 

One  chapter  is  devoted  to  physiological  and  psycho- 
logical explanations  of  the  dawning  of  consciousness  ;  and 
in  one  passage  (p.  96,)  "the  universal  struggle  for  exist- 
ence" is  accredited  with  ''having  succeeded  in  bringing 
forth  that  consummate  product  of  creative  energy,  the 
Human  Soul." 

Elsewhere  (p.  6^)  we  are  told  that  "rudimentary 
iuoral  sentiments  are  clearly  discernible  in  the  highest 
members  of  various  Mammalian  orders,  and  in  all  but 
the  lowest  members  of  our  own  order."  "The  genesis 
of  the  altruistic  emotions "  (p.  75)  is  referred  to  the 
processes  of  "natural  selection  operating  through  the 
lengthening  of  childhood."  So  far  it  might  seem  that 
the  most  uncompromising  evolutionist  could  ask  for  no 
stronger  or  more  positive  statements  of  the  character- 
istic features  of  that  philosophy. 

On  the  other  side,  however,  we  note  a  number  of 
very  significant  modifications  and  concessions.  P'or 
one  thing,  we  have  the  constant  and  reverent  recog- 
nition of  the  existence  and  agency  of  God.  Again  and 
again,  is  God  referred  to  as  the  First  Cause  —  He  is 
recognized  as  Creator. 

The  question  is  asked  (p.  114)  "Are  we  to  regard 
the  Creator's  work  as  like  that  of  a  child,  who  builds 
houses  out  of  blocks,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  knocking 
them  down?"  "The  slow  and  subtle  process  of 
evolution" is  described  as  "the  way  in  which  God 
makes  things  come  to  pass;"  (p.  32.)  Man  is  "the 
chief  among  God's  creatures  "  (p.  12).  Mr.  Fiske  em- 
phatically repudiates  atheism  and  materialism.  "Once 
dethrone  humanity,"  he  says  (p.  12/),  "regard  it  as 
a  mere  local  incident  in  an  endless  and  aimless  series 
of  cosmical  changes,  and  you  arrive  at  a  doctrine  which, 
under  whatever  specious  name  it  may  be  veiled,  is  at 
bottom  neither  more   nor  less   than  Atheism,     On  its 


go  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

metaphysical  side,  Atheism  is  the  denial  of  anything 
psychical  in  the  universe  outside  of  human  conscious- 
ness ;  and  it  is  almost  inseparably  associated  with  the 
materialistic  interpretation  of  human  consciousness  as 
the  ephemeral  result  of  a  fleeting  collocation  of  par- 
ticles of  matter.  Viewed  upon  this  side,  it  is  easy  to 
show  that  Atheism  is  very  bad  metaphysics,  while  the 
materialism  which  goes  with  it  is  utterly  condemned  by 
modern  science.  But  our  feeling  toward  Atheism  goes 
much  deeper  than  the  mere  recognition  of  it  as  philosoph- 
ically untrue.  The  mood  in  which  we  condemn  it 
is  not  at  all  like  the  mood  in  which  we  reject  the  cor- 
puscular theory  of  light,  or  Sir  G.  C.  Lewis's  vagaries 
on  the  subject  of  Egyptian  hieroglyphics.  We  are 
wont  to  look  upon  Atheism  with  unspeakable  horror 
and  loathing.  Our  moral  sense  revolts  against  it  no 
less  than  our  intelligence."  As  respects  the  argument 
from  design,  he  tells  us;  (p.  113)  ''The  Darwinian 
theory,  properly  understood,  replaces  as  much  theology 
as  it  destroys."  More  than  once  he  draws  a  deep,  de- 
cided line  of  demarcation  between  the  soul,  the  psychic, 
spiritual  life  on  the  one  side,  and  the  material  universe 
on  the  other.  He  calls  the  soul  *  *  that  last  consummate 
specimen  of  God's  handiwork"  (p.  32).  ''That  divine 
spark,  the  Soul"  (p.  171).  "That  consummate  product 
of  creative  energy,  the  Human  Soul "  (p.  96).  ' '  Whence 
came  the  soul?"  (he  says,  p.  42)  "  We  no  more  know 
than  we  know  whence  came  the  universe.  The  primal 
origin  of  consciousness  is  hidden  in  the  depths  of  the 
bygone  eternity.  That  it  cannot  possibly  be  the  product 
of  any  cunning  arrangement  of  material  particles,  is 
demonstrated  beyond  peradventure  by  what  we  now 
know  of  the  correlation  of  physical  forces.  The  Pla- 
tonic view  of  the  soul,  as  a  spiritual  substance  ;  an  efflu- 
ence   from    Godhood,    which    under  certain  conditions 


FISKE   ON    THE   DESTINY    OF    MAN.  9 1 

becomes  incarnated  in  perishable  forms  of  matter,  is 
doubtless  the  view  most  consonant  with  the  present  state 
of  our  knowledge."  He  is  evidently  anxious  to  main- 
tain that  man  is  "  a  creature  essentially  different  from 
all  others"  (p.  56).  *'Itis  not  too  much  to  say"  (he 
tells  us,  p.  57)  "that  the  difference  between  man  and 
all  other  creatures,  in  respect  of  teachableness,  progress- 
iveness,  and  individuality  of  character,  surpasses  all 
other  differences  of  kind  that  are  known  to  exist  in  the 
universe."  He  claims  still  further  that  in  the  Darwinian 
hypothesis  (p.  25)  ''we  rise  to  a  higher  view  of  the 
workings  of  God  and  of  the  nature  of  man,  than  was 
ever  attainable  before.  So  far  from  degrading  Human- 
ity, or  putting  it  on  a  level  with  the  animal  world  in 
general,  the  Darwinian  theory  shows  us  distinctly  for 
the  first  time  how  the  creation  and  the  perfecting  of 
man  is  the  goal  toward  which  nature's  work  has  all  the 
while  been  tending.  It  enlarges  tenfold  the  significance 
of  human  life,  places  it  upon  even  a  loftier  eminence 
than  poets  or  prophets  have  imagined,  and  makes  it 
seem  more  than  ever  the  chief  object  of  that  creative 
activity  which  is  manifested  in  the  physical  universe." 
He  claims  also  that  on  the  Darwinian  theory  (p.  31)  "it 
is  impossible  that  any  creature  zoologically  distinct 
from  Man  and  superior  to  him,  should  ever  at  any  future 
time  exist  upon  the  earth." 

According  to  Darwinism  the  creation  of  man  is  still 
the  goal  toward  which  Nature  tended  from  the  begin- 
ning. Not  the  production  of  any  higher  creature,  but 
the  perfecting  of  humanity  is  to  be  the  glorious  con- 
summation of  Nature's  long  and  tedious  work.  Thus 
we  suddenly  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  Man  seems 
now,  much  more  clearly  than  ever,  the  chief  among 
God's  creatures. 

He  forcibly  and  eloquently  affirms  his  belief  in  a  per- 


92  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

sonal  immortality.  He  thinks  indeed  (p.  io8)  that  *'it 
is  not  Hkely  that  we  shall  ever  succeed  in  making  the 
immortality  of  the  soul  a  matter  of  scientific  demonstra- 
tion, for  we  lack  the  requisite  data.  It  must  ever  re- 
main an  affair  of  religion  rather  than  of  science."  "In 
the  domain  of  cerebral  physiology  the  question  might 
be  debated  forever  without  a  result.  The  only  thing 
which  cerebral  physiology  tells  us,  when  studied  with 
the  aid  of  molecular  physics,  is  against  the  materialist, 
so  far  as  it  goes.  It  tells  us  that,  during  the  present 
life,  although  thought  and  feeling  are  always  manifested 
in  connection  with  a  peculiar  form  of  matter,  yet  by  no 
possibility  can  thought  and  feeling  be  in  any  sense  the 
products  of  matter.  Nothing  can  be  more  grossly  un- 
scientific than  the  famous  remark  of  Cabanis,  that  the 
brain  secretes  thought  as  the  liver  secretes  bile.  It  is  not 
even  correct  to  say  that  thought  goes  on  in  the  brain. 
What  goes  on  in  the  brain  is  an  amazingly  complex 
series  of  molecular  movements,  with  which  thought  and 
feeling  are  in  some  unknown  way  correlated,  not  as 
effects  or  as  causes,  but  as  concomitants.  So  much  is 
clear,  but  cerebral  physiology  says  nothing  about  an- 
other life.  Indeed,  why  should  it  ?  The  last  place  in 
the  world  to  which  I  should  go  for  information  about  a 
state  of  things  in  which  thought  and  feeling  can  exist 
in  the  absence  of  a  cerebrum  would  be  cerebral  physi- 
ology!  The  materialistic  assumption  that  there  is  no 
such  state  of  things,  and  that  the  life  of  the  soul  ac- 
cordingly ends  with  the  life  of  the  body,  is  perhaps  the 
most  colossal  instance  of  baseless  assumption  that  is 
known  to  the  history  of  philosophy." 

But  Mr-  Fiske  goes  further  than  this,  and  grounds 
his  belief  in  the  permanence  of  the  spiritual  part  of  man 
on  the  "  broad  grounds  of  moral  probability"  (p.  m), 
and  indeed  ultimately  on  a  postulate  of  faith.     He  com- 


FISKE   ON    THE    DESTINY    OF    MAN.  93 

pares  it  to  ''our  irresistible  belief  that  like  causes  must 
always  be  followed  by  like  effects"  (p.  115),  which  he 
agrees  with  the  authors  of  the  "Unseen  Universe"  in 
calling  *  *  a  supreme  act  of  faith,  the  expression  of  a  trust 
in  God,  that  He  will  not  put  us  to  permanent  intellect- 
ual confusion."      '^  Now  the  more  thoroughly  we  com- 
prehend (he  goes  on  to  say)  that  process  of  evolution  by 
which  things  have  come  to  be  what  they  are,  the  more 
we  are  likely  to  feel  that  to  deny  the  everlasting  persist- 
ence of  the  spiritual  element  in  Man  is  to  rob  the  whole 
process  of  its  meaning.     It  goes  far  toward  putting  us 
to  permanent   intellectual  confusion,   and  I  do  not  see 
that  anyone  has  as  yet  alleged,  or  is  ever  likely  to  al- 
lege, a  sufficient  reason  for  our  accepting  so  dire  an  al- 
ternative.    For  my  own  part,  therefore,  I  beHeve  in  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  not  in  the  sense  in  which  I  ac- 
cept the  demonstrable  truths  of  science,   but  as  a  su- 
preme act  of  faith  in  the  reasonableness  of  God's  work." 
(A  very  remarkable  declaration  surely  from  an  agnostic.) 
'  *  The  Materialist  holds  that  wlien  you  have  described 
the  whole  universe  of  phenomena  of  which  we  can  be- 
come cognizant  under  the  conditions  of  the  present  life, 
then  the  whole  story  is  told.     It  seems  to  me,  on  the 
contrary,  that  the  whole  story  is  not  thus  told.      I  feel 
the  omnipresence  of  mystery  in  such  wise  as  to  make  it 
far  easier  for  me  to  adopt  the  view  of  Euripides,  that 
what  we  call  death  may  be  but  the  dawning  of  true 
knowledge  and  of  true  life.     The  greatest  philosopher 
of  modern  times,    the   master  and  teacher  of  all  who 
shall  study  the  process  of  evolution  for  many  a  day  to 
come,  holds  that  the  conscious  soul  is  not  the  product 
of  a  collocation  of  material  particles,  but  is  in  the  deep- 
est sense  a  divine  effluence.    According  to  Mr.  Spencer, 
the  divine  energy  which  is  manifested  throughout  the 
knowable  universe  is  the  same  energy  that  wells  up  in 


94  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

US  as  consciousness.  Speaking  for  myself,  I  can  see  no 
insuperable  difficulty  in  the  notion  that  at  some  period 
in  the  evolution  of  Humanity  this  divine  spark  may  have 
acquired  sufficient  concentration  and  steadiness  to  sur- 
vive the  wreck  of  material  forms  and  endure  forever. 
Such  a  crowning  wonder  seems  to  me  no  more  than  the 
fit  climax  to  a  creative  work  that  has  been  ineffably 
beautiful  and  marvellous  in  all  its  myriad  stages." 

Towards  Christianity  our  author's  attitude  is  at  least 
reverent.  In  his  opening  Chapter  he  conciliates  favor 
for  the  Darwinian  theory  by  showing  that  the  Coperni- 
can  astronomy  has  not  shaken  the  foundations  of  Chris- 
tian theology.  "The  speculative  necessity  for  man's 
occupying  the  largest  and  most  central  spot  in  the  uni- 
verse is  no  longer  felt.  It  is  recognized  as  a  primitive 
and  childish  notion.  With  our  larger  knowledge  we  see 
that  these  vast  and  fiery  suns  are  after  all  but  the  Titan- 
like servants  of  the  little  planets  which  they  bear  with 
them  in  their  flight  through  the  abysses  of  space.  And 
as  when  God  revealed  himself  to  his  ancient  prophet,  He 
came  not  in  the  earthquake  or  the  tempest,  but  in  a 
voice  that  was  still  and  small,  so  that  divine  spark,  the 
Soul,  as  it  takes  up  its  brief  abode  in  this  realm  of  fleet- 
ting  phenomena,  chooses  not  the  central  sun  where  ele- 
mental forces  forever  blaze  and  clash,  but  selects  an 
outlying  terrestrial  nook  where  seeds  may  germinate  in 
silence,  and  where  through  slow  friction  the  mysterious 
forms  of  organic  life  may  come  to  take  shape  and  thrive. " 
(p.  16-17.) 

With  Christianity  as  a  Gospel  of  Peace  and  Goodwill 
he  is  in  hearty  accord.  He  takes  pleasure  in  identifying 
the  ethical  drift  of  Darwinian  development  with  the 
ethical  teachings  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  He  rev- 
erently calls  Christ  *'the  Master."  The  closing  words 
of  his  httle  book  give  us  the  vision  of  a  ** future  lighted 


PISKE    ON   THE    DESTINY   OF    MAN.  95 

for  US  with  the  radiant  colours  of  hope.  Strife  and  sor- 
row shall  disappear.  Peace  and  love  shall  reign  supreme. 
The  dream  of  poets,  the  lesson  of  priest  and  prophet, 
the  inspiration  of  the  great  musician,  is  confirmed  in  the 
light  of  modern  knowledge  ;  and  as  we  gird  ourselves  up 
for  the  work  of  Hfe,  we  may  look  forward  to  the  time 
when  in  truest  sense  the  kingdoms  of  this  world  shall 
become  the  kingdom  of  Christ,  and  he  shall  reign  for- 
ever and  ever,  king  of  kings  and  lord  of  lords." 

In  all  this  there  is  much  that  is  highly  significant.  It 
indicates  that  evolution  is  itself  undergoing  an  evolution 
for  the  better.  It  is  in  a  different  strain  from  that  to 
which  we  have  been  accustomed  from  the  evolutionary 
school.  It  betrays  a  secret  consciousness  on  the  part  of 
the  more  thoughtful,  candid,  and  spiritualistic  of  its  re- 
presentatives that  a  bald,  blind,  purposeless  evolution 
based  on  material,  molecular,  mechanical  conditions,  and 
nothing  else,  is  felt  to  be  unsatisfying  and  untenable.  It 
indicates  that  such  thinkers  are  seeking  a  modus  vivcndi 
with  Christianity.  It  exhibits  a  decided  rappivche7nent 
of  modern  science  towards  faith.  It  shows  a  healthy 
recoil  from  the  stark  animalism  of  the  earlier  and  cruder 
Darwinian  biology.  It  is  a  sign  that  the  baseless  as- 
sumptions and  one-sided  theorizings  of  the  earlier  evolu- 
tionists are  beginning  to  be  challenged  by  their  fol- 
lowers. ***** 

It  suggests  a  hope  that  evolution  is  feeling  its  way  to 
surer  foundations,  and  that  we  may  yet  see  a  type  of  the 
doctrine  which  will  at  once  satisfy  the  requirements  of 
science,  and  command  the  assent  of  a  Christian  theism 
and  theology. 

For  one  I  welcome  these  indications.  I  would 
gladly  encourage  the  upward  movement  of  which  these 
would  seem  to  be  the  tokens,  and  to  promote  a  better 
adjustment    of  'the    relations    between    this    powerful 


96  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

tendency    of  modern    physical    science    and    Christian 
science. 

Could  I  get  Mr.  Fiske's  ear  for  a  short  time,  I  should 
be  pleased  to  show  what  remains  to  be  done,  in  order 
to  perfect  such  an  entente  cordiale.  I  would  drop  upon 
him  one  or  two  remarks  of  this  sort :  * '  I  have  attended 
with  great  interest,  Mr.  Fiske,  to  the  exposition  you 
have  given  of  your  views  respecting  'The  Destiny  of 
Man,  in  the  light  of  his  origin.'  I  sincerely  congrat- 
ulate you  on  the  earnestness  of  your  endeavor  to  relieve 
your  favorite  hypothesis  of  some  of  the  deadening 
weights  with  which  an  atheistic  materialism  has  sought 
to  load  it.  Believing  that  further  advance  in  this  direc- 
tion is  possible  as  well  as  desirable  and  necessary, 
allow  me  respectfully  to  suggest  a  few  defects,  obscuri- 
ties and  contradictions  which  still  remain  to  be  cleared 
up,  before  a  satisfactory  conclusion  can  be  reached.  It 
is  gratifying  to  hear  from  one  of  your  school  so  dis- 
tinct a  recognition  in  terms,  of  creation  and  of  a  Creator. 
We  have  been  accustomed  to  more  or  less  evolutionary 
ridicule  of  what  these  terms  imply,  as  antiquated  and 
unscientific  superstitions.  Let  me  insist,  however,  in 
the  interest  of  clearness,  that  creation  must  not  be  con- 
founded with  evolution.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  there 
is  too  much  of  this  confusion  in  your  little  book.  I 
would  not  say  that  in  the  broader  sense  of  the  word, 
creation  may  not  include  evolution.  But  evolution 
certainly  is  not  creation.  Christian  Theology,  the  sci- 
ence of  revealed  truth,  a  science,  let  me  remind  you, 
which  is  nothing  if  not  exact,  recognizes  the  essence 
of  the  creative  act  to  be  the  power  of  bringing  into 
existence  that  which  had  no  existence,  that  which  had 
no  antecedent  condition  of  existence,  outside  of  the 
power  and  will  of  the  Creator.  This  absolute  origina- 
tion of  existence  is   the    central   fundamental   thing  in 


FISKE   ON   THE    DESTINY    OF    MAN. 


97 


creation.  To  leave  this  out  of  a  discussion  of  the 
origin  of  things,  as  I  am  afraid  you  have  done,  is  to 
leave  Hamlet  out  of  the  play.  It  is  to  formulate  a 
circle  without  a  centre,  a  process  without  a  beginning, 
an  origin  which  does  not  originate.  It  is  most  gratify- 
ing still  further  to  hear  from  you  so  emphatic  a  repu- 
diation of  Atheism,  and  so  unequivocal  a  recognition 
of  the  presence  and  activity  of  God.  It  still  remains, 
however,  for  you  to  make  of  this  presence  and  activity 
a  still  more  vital  and  important  reality  by  recognizing 
its  interpositions,  at  those  points  where  the  facts  of 
development  absolutely  require  them. 

Now  let  me  remind  you  that  science  presents  to  us 
no  unbroken  line  of  evolutionary  development.  There 
are  several  missing  links  in  the  chain — links  too,  of 
vast  importance.  There  are  chasms  in  the  line  of 
march  which  no  evolution  can  leap,  and  really  it  would 
seem  a  little  strange  that  your  book  has  not  even  a 
passing  mention  of  these  chasms.  There  is  the  chasm 
between  the  inorganic  and  the  organic — between  inani- 
mate matter  and  life.  Science  establishes  no  evolution 
of  an  organism  out  of  an  inorganic  mass.  There  is  no 
spontaneous  generation  of  life — no  evolution  of  life  out 
of  death.  There  is  but  one  explanation  of  the  origin 
of  life — the  direct  interposition  of  the  creative  energy 
of  God.  You  find  another  chasm  between  the  irrational 
and  the  rational.  It  is  just  as  impossible  that  death 
should  evolve  life,  as  that  irrational  life  should  evolve 
rational  life.  There  is  nothing  below  reason  that  can 
develop  into  reason.  Reason,  the  organ  of  necessary 
truth,  of  ethical  relations,  of  immutable  laws,  of  infi- 
nite valuations,  of  absolute  being,  can  come  into  being 
and  activity  only  as  the  direct  effluence  and  influence 
of  God. 

Another  chasn^  no   less   impassable  lies  between  the 


9^  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

non-moral  and  the  moral.  That  which  is  irrevocably 
subject  to  a  fixed  absolute  necessity ;  that  which  in 
every  part  and  particle  of  its  constitution  never  was, 
never  is,  never  will  be,  never  can  be  anything  more 
than  an  effect — that  which  can  by  no  possibility  be  any- 
thing but  what  its  environment  determines  that  it  must 
be — that  which  has  absolutely  no  causal,  self-determin- 
ing power  in  itself,  can  by  no  concei\able  possibility 
evolve  itself,  or  be  evolved  into  a  free,  responsible, 
moral  agent.  The  record  of  science  presents  no  such 
metamorphosis.  Sensation  can  no  more  turn  into  the 
sense  of  obligation,  than  galvanism  can  turn  into  life. 
There  is  only  one  power  that  can  make  a  conscience — 
that  power  is  God. 

Another  chasm,  as  wide  and  deep  as  either  of  the 
others,  lies  between  the  self-regarding  habits  of  the 
animal  and  the  altruistic  affections  of  the  man.  I  do 
not  hesitate  to  affirm  that  evolution  has  as  yet  utterly 
failed  to  account  for  the  altruism  of  the  brute,  much 
less  of  man.  You,  Mr.  Fiske,  have  done  much  for  the 
evolutionary  theory  just  at  this  point.  You  have  shown 
what  an  important  influence  is  exerted  by  the  lengthen- 
ing of  the  period  of  dependence  in  infancy  and  child- 
hood. The  suggestion  is  a  valuable  one ;  but  neither 
you  nor  any  one  else  has  successfully  shown  how  the 
altruism  for  the  exercise  of  which  a  lengthened  infancy 
or  childhood  furnished  the  occasion  was  originally  pro- 
duced. And  what  is  more,  I  venture  to  say,  that  no 
philosophy  the  pivot  of  which  is  self  can  provide  for  the 
suppression  of  self.  It  cannot  account  for  the  self-for- 
getfulness  of  the  mother  bird,  or  mother  bear,  much 
less  for  the  self-sacrifice  of  the  martyr,  or  the  devotion 
of  the  saint.  Now  in  adjusting  your  philosophy  to  the 
demands  of  faith,  these  gaps,  these  chasms  cannot  be, 
ought  not  to  be  ignored.     Nor  will  it  do  to  cover  them 


FISKE  ON   THE    DESTINY  OF   MAN.  9^ 

Up  with  the  fogs  and  darkness  of  primeval  antiquity,  or 
to  fill  them  with  the  accumulated  modifications  of  a  long 
stretch  of  dim  aeonian  periods.  No  number  of  modifi- 
cations, no  amount  of  time  will  bridge  those  chasms. 
An  infinite  and  eternal  series  of  modifications  in  dead 
matter  will  never  bring  forth  life.  And  so  of  the  rest. 
There  is  but  one  bridge  over  the  chasm,  and  that  is  God. 
And  this  brings  me  to  another  weak  point  of  your  phi- 
losophical method.  I  refer  to  the  confusion  of  catego- 
ries. Let  me  remind  you  that  Theology  has  had  a  long 
training  in  the  matter  of  categories.  It  is  at  home  in 
all  the  quiddities:  essence,  mode,  substance,  quality, 
form,  reality — it  has  been  to  school  with  these  terms 
and  the  like  for  centuries.  It  behooves  you  to  mind 
your  p's  and  q's  here  accordingly  with  the  utmost 
closeness. 

Now  when  you  say  that  *  *  not  only  in  the  world  of 
organic  life,  but  throughout  the  known  universe,  the 
doctrine  of  evolution  regards  differences  in  kind  as  due 
to  the  gradual  accumulations  of  differences  in  degree," 
let  me  gently  assure  you  that  the  doctrine  of  evolution 
is  attempting  the  very  absurd  feat  of  butting  its  head 
against  a  stone  wall.  Such  a  sponging  out  of  one  of 
the  fundamental  categories  of  thought,  the  category  of 
kind  as  contrasted  with  the  category  of  degree  is  simply 
impossible.  Philosophy  can  only  laugh  at  the  absurdity. 
Your  illustrations  are  altogether  at  fault. 

Nebula,  sun,  planet,  moon,  differences  in  kind? 

Steam,  water,  ice,  differences  in  kind? 

A  horse's  hoof,  a  cat's  paw,  different  in  kind  ? 

Assuredly  not.  Widely  different  no  doubt  in  form, 
different  in  incidental  minor  qualities  and  uses ;  but  one 
in  kind,  who  can  doubt  ? 

The  difference  between  a  corpse  and  a  living  body 
only  a  difference  in  degree?     The  difference  between 


100  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Moses  on  the  Mount  and  the  stone  tables  in  his  hands 
only  a  difference  in  degree?  The  difference  between  the 
lion  clutching  his  prey,  and  the  martyr  dying  at  the 
stake,  only  a  difference  in  degree  ?  Thus  to  categorize 
would  be  to  put  everything  to  intellectual  confusion. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  the  difference  between  sub- 
stance and  its  modifications.  Substance  is  one  thing  : 
modifications,  properties,  activities  are  another  thing. 
The  conscious  ego  is  one  thing :  consciousness  is  another. 
Do  you,  Mr.  Fiske,  not  sometimes  confound  these  ?  Do 
you  not  identify  the  evolution  of  consciousness  with  the 
evolution  of  the  conscious  substance  ?  In  accounting  for 
the  dawning  of  consciousness,  for  the  beginning  of  mem- 
ory, emotion,  reason  and  volition,  as  occasioned  by  the 
retention  of  a  surplus  of  molecular  motion  in  the  high- 
est centres,  do  you  not  ignore  the  subject,  the  substance 
which  remembers,  feels,  reasons  and  wills?  The  soul 
you  call  a  mystery  —  a  spiritual  substance,  an  effluence 
from  Godhood,  which  has  become  incarnated  in  per- 
ishable forms  of  matter,  and  which  cannot  possibly  be 
the  product  of  any  cunning  arrangement  of  material 
particles.  Most  excellently  said.  But  the  activities  of 
the  soul ;  memory,  reason,  volition  and  even  conscious- 
ness itself,  you  explain  as  due  to  the  gradual  accumula- 
tion of  differences  in  degree,  not  of  differences  in  kind. 
Is  this  logical  ?  Is  there  not  here  a  fearful  confusion  of 
categories  and  ideas?  You  say  that  the  rudiments  of 
memory,  reason,  emotion,  volition,  are  discernible  in  the 
lives  of  the  lower  animals.  What  is  the  substance  in 
which  these  predicates  inhere  ?  Is  it  soul  ?  Is  it  a  spirit- 
ual substance?  Is  it  an  effluence  of  Godhood?  If  so, 
what  becomes  of  the  ineffable  superiority  of  man  ?  If 
not  —  what  are  the  predicates  of  soul  —  what  distin- 
guishes it  so  fundamentally  from  matter?  The  same 
confusion  reigns  in  the  representation  of  man.     Is  man 


FISKE   ON   THE    DESTINY    OF    MAN.  lOI 

essentially  different  from  the  the  rest  of  creation  ?  You 
say  yes.  What  is  this  essential  difference?  How  is  it 
brought  about?  You  answer,  by  the  accumulation  of 
differences  in  degree.  That  you  say  is  the  answer  of 
evolution.  That  is  to  say  a  difference  in  essence  is 
brought  about  by  an  accumulation  of  differences  in  non- 
essence.  Or,  again,  the  accidents  condition  the  essence, 
and  not  the  essence  the  accidents.  Philosophy  can  tol- 
erate no  such  confusion  as  this.  If  man  is  different  in 
essence,  where  does  the  'one-half  human  man  '  stand  — 
of  which  you  somewhere  speak  ?  Has  he  only  the  half 
of  the  human  essence  ?  Is  it  a  figurative  expression  ?  It 
hardly  reads  so.  At  all  events  science  should  deal  spar- 
ingly in  metaphors.  The  Australian  savage,  you  say,  is 
nearer  to  the  ape  than  to  the  highest  type  of  civilized 
man.  Where  does  the  essence  of  manhood  stand  in 
this  case?    Above  the  AustraHan,  or  below  him? 

If  the  former,  the  comparison  you  make  is  irrelevant. 
If  the  latter,  the  essence  is  again  subordinated  to  the  ac- 
cidence. 

You  very  confidently  assure  us  that  *  on  the  earth  there 
will  never  be  a  higher  creature  than  man.'  On  your 
premises  can  you  justify  that  confidence?  If  as  you  say 
the  accumulation  of  physical  variations  in  degree  has  re- 
sulted in  a  higher  kind  of  existence,  the  human,  why 
may  not  the  accumulation  of  physical  variations  in  de- 
gree result  in  a  still  higher  kind  of  existence  than  the 
human  ?  Indeed  do  not  you  yourself  say  :  '*  From  what 
has  already  gone  on  during  the  historical  period  of 
man's  existence,  we  can  safely  predict  a  change  that 
will  by  and  by  distinguish  him  from  all  other  creatures, 
even  more  widely  and  more  fundamentally  than  he  is 
distinguished  to-day  "  ? 

And,  speaking  of  the  accumulation  of  psychical  vari- 
ations as  a  factor  of  evolution,  let  me  ask  —  have  you 


102  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

seriously  weighed  the  perils  to  the  theory  of  evolution 
of  the  admission  of  this  factor?  The  accumulation  of 
physical  variations  is,  as  you  know,  already  a  tremen- 
dous strain  on  the  theory  in  the  matter  of  time. 

Astronomy  is  already  protesting  vigorously  against 
your  demand  for  a  hundred  or  more  millions  of  years. 

But  as  your  own  discussion  shows,  the  accumulation 
of  psychical  variations  —  these  being  infinitely  more 
complex,  more  subtle  and  delicate,  more  rapid  and  ev- 
anescent, would  require  a  vastly  longer  period  for  the 
production  of  a  definite  permanent  result.  And  is  it  in 
any  case  conceivable  that  these  infinitely  varied,  deeply 
rooted,  far-reaching,  subtilely-working  variations  which 
characterize  the  psychical  life  —  can  be  accounted  for  by 
so  crude  an  agency  as  the  principle  of  natural  selection 
working  on  the  lines  of  a  low  material  utility  ? 

You  must  confess  that  evolution  is  sorely  put  to  it  to 
account  for  the  structure  of  the  body  on  that  principle. 
The  eye,  the  ear,  the  heart,  the  lungs,  the  brain  —  or- 
ganized by  an  aeonian  process  of  natural  selection? 
That  is  a  tremendous  strain  on  our  credulity.  But  when 
you  add  to  this,  the  structure  of  the  soul:  sensibility, 
memory,  imagination,  fancy,  wit,  humor,  analysis,  syn- 
thesis, induction,  deduction,  intuition,  aspiration,  grati- 
tude, sympathy,  faith,  hope,  love  —  when  you  under- 
take to  account  for  the  building  up  of  these  and  kindred 
powers,  by  simple  natural  selection,  operating  through 
the  struggle  for  existence  — operating  almost  exclusive- 
ly thus  far,  mind  you,  on  the  plane  of  the  physical  life — 
you  undertake  surely  what  might  well  appal  the  world's 
most  transcendent  intellect. 

Let  me  for  a  moment  call  your  attention  to  one  diffi- 
culty, which  so  far  as  I  know  has  received  very  little,  if 
any  consideration.  We  ask  you,  whence  come  the  pres- 
ent faculties,   aptitudes,   instincts,   habits,    of  man  and 


FISKE    ON   THE    DESTINY    OF    MAN.  IO3 

Other  creatures?  You  tell  us  they  are  the  results  of  a 
long,  long  history  of  efforts  and  failures,  and  efforts  and 
successes,  in  sustaining  life.  For  example,  you  tell  us  in 
your  book  that  "all  the  visceral  actions  which  keep  us 
alive  from  moment  to  moment,  the  movements  of  the 
heart  and  lungs,  the  contractions  of  arteries,  the  secre- 
tions of  glands,  the  digestive  operations  of  the  stomach 
and  liver,  belong  to  the  class  of  reflex  actions."  That 
is  to  say  —  actions  which  have  been  "completely  or- 
ganized in  the  nervous  system  before  birth." 

But  how  did  these  actions  become  "organized  "  (mark 
the  word)  ?  To  become  organized  is  a  process  :  how  was 
it  carried  on?  They  are  now  automatic;  that  is,  the  ac- 
tion of  the  brain,  through  long  habit,  takes  place  so  rap- 
idly as  to  escape  consciousness.  But  how  did  they  be- 
come automatic  ?  They  were  not  always  such  —  they 
could  not  always  have  been  such.  Before  they  became 
automatic,  according  to  your  own  showing,  there  must 
have  been  consciousness  :  —  and,  as  you  say,  '  conscious- 
ness implies  perpetual  discrimination,  or  the  recognition 
of  likeness  and  differences.'  (p.  45.) 

Now  what  was  there  to  be  conscious,  to  discriminate, 
to  recognize  likeness  and  differences  ? 

What  was  there  to  build  up  all  these  organs  and  their 
activities,  before  their  automatic  action  was  established? 
Was  there  soul  there  ?    Was  there  consciousness  there? 

There  must  have  been,  according  to  cerebral  physiolo- 
gy, and  yet  according  to  evolution,  there  could  not  have 
been,  for  soul,  consciousness,  psychical  discriminations 
and  variations,  appear  only  much  further  on,  and  much 
higher  up  in  the  line.  And  so  evolution  resolves  itself 
into  a  see-saw  process. 

First  consciousness  works  up  an  automaton,  and  then 
the  automaton  evolves  consciousness. 


104  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

The  conclusion  to  which  we  come  all  along  the  line 
is  that  Darwin's  evolution,  evolution  by  natural  selec- 
tion simply,  is  a  totally  inadequate  solution  of  the 
facts. 

It  fills  the  past  with  perplexity,  the  present  with 
confusion,  the  future  with  doubt.  There  is  no  personal 
immortality  on  the  line  of  evolution  by  natural  selec- 
tion. Darwin  felt  that,  and  he  knew  his  own  theory  if 
any  man  did.  You  yourself,  Mr.  Fiske,  ground  your 
faith  in  immortality  on  a  postulate  of  faith,  faith  in  the 
reasonableness  of  God's  work.  That  is  a  reasonable 
principle,  it  is  a  large  principle,  a  principle  that  will 
justify  faith  in  very  much  besides  the  immortality  of 
the  soul. 

Apply  that  principle  all  along  the  line,  and  it  will 
introduce  a  good  many  other  factors  into  the  process 
of  evolution  besides  Natural  Selection. 

Natural  Selection  unquestionably  has  its  place  in  sci- 
ence. Evolutionary  Natural  Selection  is  doubtless  a 
true  fact  so  far  as  it  goes. 

It  is  doubtless  a  useful  and  fruitful  ''working  hypo- 
thesis "  in  the  hands  of  the  physical  investigator.  But 
it  is  far  from  being  exhaustive.  It  is  very  far  from 
accounting  for  all  the  facts.  We  need  a  broader 
"working  hypothesis,"  and  one  with  diviner  factors 
embodied  in  it. 

We  need  a  "  working  hypothesis  "  which  will  account 
for  the  origin  of  life,  will  account  for  the  origin  of  soul, 
will  account  for  the  origin  of  the'  spiritual  life.  We 
need  a  ''working  hypothesis"  which  will  take  into 
account  the  Fact  of  Sin,  and  which  will  provide  a 
Remedy. 

We  need  that  Divine  Philosophy  which  will  provide 
a  Teacher  who  brings   life  and  immortality  to  light   in 


FISKE   ON    THE    DESTINY    OF   MAN.  105 

the  Gospel.  With  this  we  are  sure  of  the  Soul — we  are 
sure  of  Duty — we  are  sure  of  Life — we  are  sure  of 
God. 

*  *  This  is  life  eternal  that  they  may  know  Thee,  the 
only  true  God,  and  Him  whom  Thou  didst  send,  even 
Jesus  Christ." 


V. 

THE  SCHOLAR  AS  AN  ETHICAL  FORCE.* 

Half  a  century  ago,  on  an  occasion  similar  to  the 
present,  R.  W.  Emerson  spoke  as  follows:  ''Neither 
years,  nor  books,  have  yet  availed  to  extirpate  a  pre- 
judice then  [when  a  boy  in  college]  rooted  in  me,  that 
a  scholar  is  the  favorite  of  heaven  and  earth,  the  excel- 
lency of  his  country,  the  happiest  of  men.  His  duties 
lead  him  directly  into  the  holy  ground  where  other 
men's  aspirations  only  point.  His  successes  are  occa- 
sions of  purest  joy  to  all  men.  Eyes  is  he  to  the  blind ; 
feet  is  he  to  the  lame.  His  failures,  if  he  is  worthy, 
are  inlets  to  higher  advantages.  And  because  the 
scholar  by  every  thought  he  thinks,  extends  his  domin- 
ion into  the  general  mind  of  men,  he  is  not  one,  but 
many. 

On  a  like  occasion,  half  a  decade  ago,  George  Will- 
iam Curtis  thus  expressed  himself:  ''Take  from  the 
country  at  this  moment  the  educated  power  which  is 
condemned  as  romantic  and  sentimental,  and  you  would 
take  from  the  army  its  general,  from  the  ship  its  com- 
pass, from  the  national  action  its  moral  main  spring. 
It  is  not  the  demagogue  and  the  shouting  rabble,  it  is 
the  people,  heeding  the  word  of  the  thinker  and  the 
lesson  of  experience,  which  secures  the  welfare  of  the 
American  Republic,   and  enlarges  human  liberty." 


*  Address  at  Adelbert  College,  Cleveland,  O.,  1883. 
(106) 


THE   SCHOLAR  AS   AN    ETHICAL    FORCE.  10/ 

"  If  American  scholarship  does  not  carry  the  election 
to-day,  it  determines  the  policy  of  to-morrow." 

*'Calm,  patient,  confident,  heroic  in  our  busy  and 
material  life,  it  perpetually  vindicates  the  truth  that  the 
things  which  are  unseen  are  eternal."  **So  in  the 
cloudless  midsummer  sky  serenely  shines  the  moon, 
while  the  tumultuous  ocean  rolls  and  murmurs  beneath, 
the  type  of  illimitable  and  unbridled  power." 

*'  But,  resistlessly  marshaled  by  celestial  laws,  all  the 
wild  waters,  heaving  from  pole  to  pole,  rise  and  recede, 
obedient  to  that  mild  queen  of  heaven." 

I  have  cited  these  utterances  of  these  two  distin- 
guished American  thinkers  because  of  the  consentane- 
ous appreciation  which  they  exhibit,  of  the  moral  sig- 
nificance which  attaches  to  the  life  and  influence  of  the 
scholar.  According  to  Emerson,  the  scholar  is  the 
light  of  his  age,  the  eyes  and  feet  of  men,  to  bring 
them  into  the  holy  ground  to  which  their  aspirations 
point,  or  as  he  elsewhere  expresses  the  same  idea  : 
"The  scholars  are  the  priests  of  that  thought  which 
establishes  the  foundation  of  the  earth.  No  matter 
what  is  their  special  work  or  profession,  they  stand  for 
the  spiritual  interest  of  the  world  ;  and  it  is  a  common 
calamity  if  they  neglect  their  post  in  a  country  where 
the  material  interest  is  so  predominant  as  it  is  in  Amer- 
ica." According  to  Curtis,  the  Scholar  is  the  moral 
mainspring  of  his  generation,  swaying  like  the  moon, 
the  tidal  forces  which  move  and  uplift  the  world. 

With  these  noble  and  significant  utterances,  let  me 
introduce  to  you  the  theme  of  the  hour:  The  Scholar 
as  an  Ethical  Force. 

You  will  understand  at  once,  that  in  discoursing  on 
this  theme,  I  assume  that  ethical  power  is  an  integral 
element  of  all  true  culture.  The  training  which  slights 
the  conscience  and'  the  will,    which  does  not  clarify  the 


I08  LLEWEYLYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

moral  vision,  which  does  not  help  to  self-mastery, 
which  does  not  put  man  in  intelligent  accord  with  the 
spiritual  legislation  of  the  universe,  is  radically  defective. 

The  moral  pigmy,  though  a  giant  in  intellect,  de- 
serves not  the  name  "Scholar."  For  the  scholar  is  the 
well-rounded,  symmetrical  man,  trained  to  grapple  with 
every  question  which  comes  before  him.  And  most 
assuredly  the  culture  which  does  not  fit  a  man  to  grapple 
with  the  ethical  problems  of  the  day,  is  superficial,  if 
not  spurious. 

I  am  not  unaware  that  in  to-day's  culture  there  are 
tendencies  which  seem  unfavorable  to  the  ethical  sym- 
metry of  a  well-rounded  development. 

There  are  forces  at  work  in  literature,  in  science,  in 
art,  in  politics,  which  tend  to  the  depreciation,  if  not 
to  the  elimination,  of  the  ethical  factor  in  those  de- 
partments. This  is  true,  in  a  measure,  of  the  growing 
tendency  towards  specialties.  In  an  age  when  the 
study  of  a  beetle  is  the  occupation  of  a  lifetime,  when 
the  philology  of  a  particle  is  a  lien  on  immortality, 
symmetry  is  not  likely  to  be  the  spontaneous  product 
of  the  soil. 

In  magnifying  the  power  of  your  microscope,  you 
contract  the  scope  of  your  horizon.  Nor  is  the  peril 
alone  of  intellectual  onesidedness.  There  is  danger 
also  of  moral  narrowness. 

The  specialist  runs  the  risk  of  losing  clearness  and 
fairness  of  vision,  not  only  in  the  realm  of  truth,  but 
also  in  the  realm  of  duty.  The  vivisectionist,  for  ex- 
ample, may  have  something  to  say  for  himself  as  an 
investigator  of  certain  facts,  but  it  is  at  least  a  grave 
question  whether  the  gain  to  the  scientist  does  not 
mean  some  loss  to  the  man.  There  are  other  influ- 
ences in  science  besides  specialism  which  tend  to  mini- 
mize the  ethical  interest.     Take  the  search  after  unity, 


THE   SCHOLAR   AS   AN   ETHICAL   FORCK  100 

which  so  powerfully  dominates  scientific  thought. 
Whatever  the  line  of  his  investigation,  the  naturalist 
seeks  to  discover  at  the  far-off  end  of  it,  the  primordial 
unit,  the  atom,  the  force,  the  law,  the  invisible  One, 
out  of  which  the  visible  Many  have  been  evolved.  But 
in  the  press  and  throng  of  material  phenomena  and 
interests  which  crowd  upon  his  observation,  it  is  not 
strange  if  he  is  more  and  more  tempted  to  resolve  all 
into  a  unit  of  matter,  and  so  far  at  least  to  subordinate 
the  spiritual  and  ethical  to  the  physical,  as  to  find  in 
the  former  only  a  modification  of  the  latter.  Thus  he 
is  less  concerned  as  to  what  ought  to  be,  than  what  must 
be.  Gravitation  is  to  him  a  larger  term  than  obligation. 
Afifinity  is  a  more  important  phenomenon  than  sym- 
pathy or  love.  In  the  literature  of  the  day  again, 
there  are  certain  drifts  noticable  which  give  us  pause. 

Take  the  drift  towards  realism,  and  ask  yourself  what 
is  its  ethical  significance?  You  have  heard  it  said  that 
Hterature  is  the  photography  of  life. 

The  question  which  we  hear  the  essayist,  the  poet, 
the  historian  of  the  day  ask  is :  What  about  the  men 
and  women  of  real  life? 

*  Let  us  have  done  with  the  ideal,  the  imaginary,  the 
impossible. 

*  Away  with  the  airy  nothings  of  dreamland ! 
*'Down  with  the  gods  and  goddesses! 

*No  more  Utopias! 

*  No  more  fooling  fancies  of  a  millennial  mirage ! 
'  Give  us  facts  ! 

'  Give  us  life— its  comedy,  its  farce,   its  tragedy ! 
'Nay,  give  us  death!  give  us  sin,  folly,  vice,  crime! 
'Give  us  reality,  ghastly,  hideous,  if  so  be. 

*  Immoral,  you  say — what  of  that  ? 

'  Let  the  picture  be  true  to  nature,  and  let  nature  be 
responsible  for  the  effect. 


tlO  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

'Let  US  have  vivisection  on  a  grand  scale. 

'Let  this  diseased  leper  of  our  common  humanity  be 
laid  out  on  the  dissecting  table,  and  as  its  flesh  quivers 
under  the  scalpel,  let  us  see  just  what  is  the  matter 
with  it.' 

Similarly  in  art. 

Here,  too,  we  behold  "realism"  asserting  itself,  at 
the  expense  again  of  the  moral. 

'  Art, '  we  are  told,  must  not  preach. 

*The  more  the  picture  or  the  statue  is  a  sermon,  the 
less  is  it  a  work  of  art. 

'Art  is  the  exponent  of  beauty,  not  of  duty. 

*  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  morality  as  such. 

'In  its  own  nature  and  language — it  is  not  indeed 
immoral,  but  certainly  unmoral. 

'Let  the  artist  draw  or  hew  the  line  of  beauty  as 
the  spirit  of  grace  may  guide  his  hand,  and  let  the 
straight  line  of  right  take  care  of  itself.' 

To  some  extent  we  note  a  kindred  drift  in  public  and 
political  life.  The  growth  of  civilization  has  caused  an 
immense  expansion  of  the  material  interests  of  society. 
The  business  of  civilized  communities  has  assumed  a  vast 
complexity  of  forms  and  relations.  The  adjustment  of 
these  complex  interests  §nd  claims  is  one  of  the  most 
intricate  problems  of  modern  statesmanship.  The  effect 
of  all  this  has  been  to  give  especial  prominence  to  the 
material  side  of  politics.  The  successful  statesman  of 
to-day  is  the  large-eyed,  long-headed,  strong-handed 
man  of  business. 

He  is  financier,  commerce-opener,  budget-maker,  tar- 
iff-monger. Having  to  deal  with  the  conditions  of  ma- 
terial prosperity  and  growth,  it  is  not  strange  if  he  finds 
himself  driven  by  the  logic  of  his  position  to  regard  all 
social  interests  as  predominatingly  secular.  And  so  the 
atmosphere  of  our  public  life  tends  to  become  more  and 


THE    SCHOLAR    AS    AN    ETHICAL    FORCE.  I  I  I 

more  materialistic  and  utilitarian.  Moral  issues  are  sent 
to  the  rear,  and  kept  there  until  they  force  themselves 
to  the  front.  Their  first  solution  is  attempted  by  the 
rule  of  Profit  and  Loss. 

Whisky  —  an  article  of  revenue  ; 

The  Indian  question — a  question  of  land; 

Monopoly  —  a  matter  of  percentage ; 

The  Public  Service  —  private  spoils  and  vcb  victis  ; 

Political  Organization  —  the  party  machine  ; 

Principle  —  policy,  and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost. 

These  tendencies  must  be  arrested,  if  a  healthy  social 
life  is  to  be  preserved.  And  if  Mr.  Curtis  is  right  in 
claiming  for  the  educated  class,  ''the  leadership  of  mod- 
ern civilization,"  then  surely  the  scholar  has  something 
to  do  in  the  correction  of  these  evils.  The  loud  call  for 
''the  Scholar  in  PoHtics"  which  from  time  to  time  goes 
forth,  shows  the  conviction  which  is  entertained  in  some 
quarters  at  least,  that  culture  has  its  special  responsibil- 
ities in  the  advancement  of  social  improvement.  It  is 
but  fair  to  notice  however,  that  there  are  those  who 
challenge  the  competency  of  scholarship  for  this  social 
leadership. 

Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  in  England  and  Mr.  Wendell 
Phillips,  lately  deceased  in  our  own  country,  have  made 
the  charge  that  Culture  is  timid,  cowardly,  ease-loving, 
time-serving,  recreant  to  its  responsibilities.  It  may  be 
worth  our  while  briefly  to  examine  this  charge.  The 
scholar,  it  is  said,  is  by  virtue  of  his  scholarship  disquali- 
fied for  some,  at  least,  of  the  functions  of  an  ethical 
force.  The  moral  leader,  the  reformer,  is  likely  to  be 
handicapped  by  his  scholastic  accomplishments,  or  at 
least  by  the  temper,  or  the  tone  of  thought,  feeling  and 
purpose,  which  is  breathed  into  him  by  the  schools. 
Thoreau  said  of  John  Brown  that  he  was  "less  con- 
cerned to  right  ^  Greek  accent,  than  to  lift  up  a  fallen 


112  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

man."  It  may  be  said —  Mr.  Phillips  was  wont  to  say 
it — that  those  who  understood  the  slope  of  the  accent 
cared  but  little  for  the  posture  of  a  man,  and  that  John 
Brown  made  more  thorough  work  of  it,  for  knowing 
more  about  Sharpe's  rifle  than  about  an  oxytone,  or  a 
barytone. 

Then  again  we  hear  it  charged  that  scholarship  tends 
to  abstractions,  to  the  neglect  of  concrete  realities.  It 
lingers  in  the  past  more  than  in  the  present.  It  culti- 
vates a  taste  for  fossils,  rather  than  for  living  organisms. 
It  produces  doctrinaires,  instead  of  practical  men.  It 
makes  men  romantic,  visionary,  the  ready  dupes  of 
Utopian  phantasies,  or  of  patent  Millennium-incubators. 
Or  perchance  it  runs  into  over-refinement,  a  squeam- 
ish aestheticism,  an  impracticable,  fastidious  dilettanteism, 
better  suited  for  a  cabinet  of  bric-a-brac,  or  the  Sultan's 
garden  of  spices,  or  the  cloth  of  gold,  than  for  the 
dusty  arena  of  competition,  or  the  battle-field  of  thoughts 
and  passions. 

Let  us  frankly  admit  whatever  of  truth  there  may 
be  in  all  this.  Let  these  charges  and  insinuations  serve 
at  least  to  indicate  some  of  the  liabilities  which  beset 
scholarship  when  it  gets  out  of  the  school,  and  against 
which  it  must  sedulously  guard,  if  it  would  realize  its 
sublime  mission.  But  the  question  still  remains:  Do 
these  besetments  set  aside  that  mission  ?  Is  the  scholar 
a  failure  as  an  ethical  force?  By  no  means.  What- 
ever may  be  true  of  particular  instances,  it  is  assuredly 
not  true  that,  as  a  class,  educated  men  have  been 
found  wanting  in  the  assertion  of  their  moral  person- 
ality as  leaders  both  in  the  world  of  thought  and  in  the 
world  of  action.  Mr.  Curtis  has  conclusively  shown 
this,  in  the  address  already  quoted,  by  abundant  his- 
torical examples.     Not  to  go  over  the   same  ground, 


THE   SCHOLAR    AS    AN    ETHICAL    FORCE.  II3 

let  me  invite  you  to  the  consideration  of  the  subject  by 
a  somewhat  different  hne  of  approach. 

Note  then  at  the  outset  that  the  very  logic  of  the 
scholar's  discipline  arrays  him  on  the  side  of  moral 
order  and  progress.  I  need  not  remind  you  that  ethics 
is  itself  a  branch  of  liberal  culture.  Ever  since  the 
days  of  Aristotle  it  has  been  recognized  as  a  distinct 
science,  and  as  an  essential  part  of  the  academic  curric- 
ulum. Its  fundamental  principles,  axioms,  definitions, 
its  generalizations  and  laws,  its  inductions  and  deduc- 
tions are  carefully  studied  and  discussed.  The  scholar's 
mind  is  trained  to  interest  itself  in  ethical  questions  and 
considerations,  to  examine  the  foundations  of  conduct, 
to  define  the  conditions  and  to  formulate  rules  of  right 
living,  to  forecast  the  tendencies  of  moral  opinions  and 
developments.  Is  it  reasonable  to  expect  that  all  this 
shall  count  for  nothing?  To  be  sure  it  is  a  long  cry 
from  theory  to  practice.  But  here  again  the  value  of 
scholastic  training  asserts  itself.  If  liberal  culture  ac- 
compHshes  anything  for  a  man,  it  supplies  the  mental 
endowment  for  the  conversion  of  theory  into  use. 

The  discipline  which  leaves  a  man  a  helpless  theorist, 
is  of  little  value.  Moreover,  the  temper  of  a  genuine 
culture  is  calculated  to  strengthen  the  moral  instinct, 
in  that  it  fosters  the  love  of  the  real.  The  scholar  is 
bound  by  the  highest  law  of  his  being  to  reject  all 
falsehood,  affectation,  sham,  and  to  render  allegiance 
only  to  the  real,  the  substantial,  the  true.  The  ethical 
power  of  this  obligation  it  is  easy  to  see. 

Then  again,  the  general  contents  and  resources  of  a 
wise,  liberal  culture  have  distinct  ethical  affiliations. 
Mathematics,  Physics,  History,  Logic,  Law,  all  strike 
hands  with  Ethics.  All  combine  in  the  upbuilding  of 
the  personaHty,  and  in  the  development  of  moral,  no  less 
than  mental  capacity.     A  broad  true  culture  is  a  unit. 


114  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

All  its  branches  re-enforce  each  other,  and  form  a  vital 
synthesis  in  the  development,  just  as  the  universe  to 
which  a  large  culture  correlates  the  mind,  is  a  unit,  and 
all  its  laws  and  kingdoms  flow  together  and  enrich  each 
other.  The  processes  of  being  run  on  parallel  lines, 
largely  indeed  on  converging  lines.  There  is  a  unity  of 
movement  and  purpose  discernible  in  the  entire  scheme. 
One  law  of  nature  says  Amen  to  the  other. 

The  facts  and  principles  of  the  moral  universe  have  their 
echoes  in  the  physical.  The  song  of  the  planet,  silently 
revolving  in  its  orbit  around  its  central  sun  murmurs 
itself  in  the  still  small  voice  of  conscience.  Hence  in 
the  line:  ''An  undevout  astronomer  is  mad,"  there  is 
true  logic  no  less  than  poetry  ;  for  whether  seen  through 
the  telescope  or  from  the  shepherd's  hilltop,  the  stars 
teach  worship. 

No  less  logical  would  it  be  to  say —  "A  lying  math- 
ematician is  mad,"  seeing  that  nature's  figures  never  lie  ; 
or  that —  "A  dishonest  chemist  is  deranged,"  seeing 
that  in  nature's  compositions  the  law  of  quid  pro  quo 
rules  with  invariable  and  infinitesimal  exactness.  "The 
principles  of  right  living,"  says  John  Fiske,  "are  really 
connected  with  the  constitution  of  the  universe."  And 
so  in  proportion  as  the  scholar  realizes  his  prerogative 
and  gets  near  the  heart  of  nature,  he  gathers  into  his 
own  heart  the  ethical  inspiration  of  her  order,  and  the 
strength  of  her  laws. 

Then,  still  further,  the  scholar's  discipline  puts  him 
en  rapp07i:  with  the  loftiest  thinkers  of  the  ages,  en  rap- 
port first  of  all,  with  the  men.  His  scholarship  intro- 
duces him  to  the  confraternity  of  earth's  great  ones. 
Through  his  association  with  the  choice  spirits  of  the 
race,  he  catches  somewhat  of  their  tone  and  temper,  he 
is  brought  out  of  his  limitations,  he  is  hfted  above  all 
personal   and    provincial   narrowness,    he    acquires   the 


THE  SCHOLAR  AS  AN  ETHICAL  FORCE.       115 

larger  way  of  looking  at  things.  Living  on  the  lofty  table- 
lands where  Olympian  souls  hold  high  festival,  he  quaffs 
the  elixir  of  true  greatness :  for  as  has  been  truly  said : 
"  He  who  keeps  company  with  the  great  and  the  good, 
learns  to  love  what  they  love  and  to  despise  what  they 
despise."  Nor  is  this  all.  Through  the  same  compan- 
ionship he  becomes  habituated  not  only  to  the  tone  and 
the  temper  of  the  great  and  the  good,  but  also  to  their 
perceptions  and  conclusions : 

His,  the  crystalization  of  the  purest  processes  of 
thought ; 

His,  the  distillation  of  the  clearest  ideas ; 

His,  the  blossoming  and  fruitage  of  the  ripest  and 
sweetest  juices  of  the  world's  growth.  On  the  virgin 
soil  of  his  mind  fall  the  seed-thoughts  of  the  ages,  at  the 
moment  of  their  highest  germinative  potency.  His  ear 
catches  the  resurrection-trumpet-tones  of  the  centuries — 
those  mighty  affirmations  of  truth  and  duty,  which  ever 
and  anon  startle  the  nations  out  of  their  slumbers  and 
arouse  them  to  a  nobler  manhood. 

And  more  yet.  His  the  teachings  not  only  of  this 
man  and  of  that  man,  but  of  the  ages.  Revelation  is  a 
growth.  Truth  is  communicated  by  instalments.  Each 
age  receives  its  portion.  Each  takes  up  the  thread 
where  the  last  dropped  it,  and  carries  on  the  weaving  of 
the  web  to  greater  completeness.  There  are  conclusions 
which  traverse  the  ages.  There  are  syllogisms,  which 
more  than  one  mind,  which  more  than  one  generation 
are  required  to  formulate  and  conclude.  A  Plato  or  an 
Epictetus  furnishes  the  major  premise,  a  Descartes  or  a 
Kant  the  minor. 

So  there  are  sorites  —  logical  chains  which  run  on 
through  the  centuries.  The  first  century  contributes 
the  first  link  in  the  chain  ;  the  fourth  century  contributes 
the  second  hnk;- the  eleventh  century   contributes  the 


Il6  LLEWELYN   iOAN   EVAKS. 

third  link;  the  sixteenth  century  contributes  the  fourth 
link,  and  so  down.  It  is  the  scholar's  mission  to  com- 
bine the  premises,  to  complete  the  series,  and  thus  to 
make  the  vast  amplitude  of  the  past  the  base  of  his  pyr- 
amid. So  even  in  morals:  although  here  certainly  we 
are  constrained  to  recognize  a  large  intuitional  element. 
But  the  processes  of  the  ages  do  much  nevertheless  to 
clarify  the  intuitions  of  the  individual  soul,  and  to  organ- 
ize moral  convictions  into  social  forces.  The  life  of  hu- 
manity is  pre-eminently  a  moral  drama.  The  world's 
history,  says  Schiller,  is  the  world's  nemesis.  It  is  the 
justification  of  the  ways  of  the  Supreme  Ruler,  the  vin- 
dication of  His  eternal  statutes,  the  Hving  development 
of  the  Decalogue. 

The  Almighty  Finger  which  wrote  the  Ten  Words  of 
Sinai  on  tablets  of  stone,  has  again  and  again  written 
them  in  letters  of  flame  on  the  destinies  of  Nations.  The 
story  of  man  is  thus  the  story  of  a  divine  law.  History 
is  the  record  of  progress  under  this  law.  Its  represen- 
tative personalities  are  the  incarnations  of  eternal  prin- 
ciples. Its  revolutions  are  the  protests  of  what  Carlyle 
has  called  the  Everlasting  No.  Its  advances  are  the 
avatars  of  conscience. 

"All  political  revolutions,"  says  John  Stuart  Mill, 
**not  effected  by  foreign  conquest,  originate  in  moral 
revolutions.  The  subversion  of  established  institutions 
is  merely  one  consequence  of  the  previous  subversion 
of  established  opinions.  The  political  revolutions  of 
the  last  three  centuries,  were  but  a  few  outward  mani- 
festations of  a  moral  revolution  which  dates  from  the 
great  breaking-loose  of  human  faculties,  commonly 
described  as  the  revival  of  letters,  and  of  which  the 
main  instrument  and  agent  was  the  invention  of  print- 
ing. How  much  of  the  course  of  that  moral  revolu- 
tion yet   remains   to  be   run,    or   how   many   political 


THE  SCHOLAR  AS  AN  ETHICAL  FORCE.       II7 

revolutions  it  will  yet  generate  before  it  be  exhausted, 
no  one  can  tell."  Who,  then,  if  not  the  scholar,  will 
interpret  for  us  the  unfolding  of  this  wondrous  Drama? 

Who,  if  not  he,  will  read  the  Divine  hand-writing  on 
the  wall,  and  teach  us  the  lesson  of  the  hour? 

Let  us  note  at  this  point  one  more  special  endow- 
ment of  the  scholar  for  his  ethical  vocation,  that,  to- 
wit,  which  lies  in  the  power  of  expression. 

One  important  advantage  of  complete  culture  is  that 
it  endows  man  with  the  gift  of  discourse.  It  changes 
the  tongue  of  iron  or  lead  into  the  tongue  of  silver  or 
gold.  The  scholar  is  trained  to  be  a  Voice,  to  articulate 
men's  thoughts  and  convictions,  to  define  for  them  the 
truths,  the  sentiments,  the  impressions,  the  persuasions, 
which  they  imperfectly  apprehend,  so  that  they  may 
become  palpable,  vocal,  vivid  realities.  This  is  no 
mean  function.  It  is  one  of  the  highest  prerogatives 
of  culture.  In  the  exercise  of  it  the  scholar  rises  to 
the  dignity  of  the  prophet. 

He  is  the  advocate  of  the  universal  conscience.  He 
voices  the  better  self  of  the  race.  He  pleads  with  each 
man  for  the  supremacy  of  the  God-like  within  him. 
He  who  does  this  has  power,  for  he  has  God  for  his 
ally.  This  is  what  made  Luther's  words  *' half-battles." 
When  conscience  sends  forth  its  lightnings,  the  words 
are  thunder. 

Such  being  some  of  the  advantages  with  which  the 
scholar  is  endowed  for  his  mission  as  an  ethical  force, 
let  us  now  consider — somewhat  hastily — the  task  which 
lies  before  him. 

*'You  believe" — says  Frederic  Denison  Maurice, 
speaking  through  one  of  his  characters  in  Eustace  Con- 
way— ''that  the  university  is  to  prepare  youths  for  a 
successful  career  in  society :  I  believe  the  sole  object  is 
to  give  them  that  manly  character   which  will  enable 


115  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

them  to  resist  the  influences  of  society."  Before  a 
man  can  do  what  he  ought  to  do,  he  must  be  what  he 
ought  to  be.  In  every  career  in  which  he  may  engage, 
the  scholar  must  be  a  pattern  of  every  manly  virtue 
and  greatness  of  soul. 

That  ideal  scholar,  John  Milton,  thus  describes  the 
heroic  aspiration  with  which  in  early  youth  he  conse- 
crated himself  to  his  intellectual  vocation:  "I  was 
confirmed  in  this  opinion,  that  he  who  would  not  be 
frustrated  of  his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in  laudable 
things,  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem,  .  .  .  not  pre- 
suming to  sing  high  praises  of  heroic  men  or  famous 
cities,  unless  he  have  in  himself  the  experience  and 
practice  of  all  that  is  praiseworthy."  "Before  he  can 
make  a  poem,''  says  Mark  Pattison,  ''Milton  will  make 
himself.'' 

So  in  Tennyson's  charming  In  Memoriam  portrait  of 
his  scholar-friend,  Henry  Hallam,  we  can  but  feel  how 
essential  are  those  traits  of  ethical  excellence  which 
mark  the  picture;  that  ''high  nature  amorous  of  the 
good,"  that  "soul  on  highest  mission  sent,"  that 
"growth"  which  was 

"  Not  alone  in  power 
"And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 
"Jn  reverence  and  in  charity." 

When  Michael  Angelo  lost  by  death  the  support  of 
Cardinal  Ippolito,  on  whom  all  his  best  hopes  had  been 
placed,  he  resolved  (in  his  own  language)  ' '  to  confide 
in  himself  and  to  become  something  of  worth  and 
value." 

To  produce  a  divine  result,  one  must  realize  the 
divine  in  himself 

"  Be  noble!  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
"  In  other  men,  sleeping,  but  never  dead, 
"Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own," 


THE  SCHOLAR  AS  AN  ETHICAL  FORCE.       II9 

Being  himself  thus  the  exemplar  of  worth,  the 
scholar  becomes  the  commissioned  advocate  of  justice, 
honor,  truth.  His  scholarship  is  heaven's  retainer,  en- 
gaging his  services  in.  behalf  of  the  celestial  order, 
which  should  rule  on  earth  as  in  heaven.  It  becomes 
his  privilege  to  vindicate  at  all  times  the  supreme^  sov- 
ereignty of  conscience,  the  sweet  reasonableness  of 
right  living,  the  sterling  worth  of  honest  thinking,  of 
sincere  feeling,  of  straight-forward  action — to  prove, 
not  that  honesty  is  the  best  policy,  but  that  where  it  is 
a  question  of  honesty,  policy  is  not  to  be  even  thought 
of;  and  that  duty,  like  the  sun,  shuts  out  all  light  save 
its  own. 

It  becomes  his  sacred  office  to  win  the  world's  in- 
tellect to  the  support  of  the  purest  principles,  of  the 
noblest  standards,  of  the  most  heroic  enterprises,  to 
bring  about  a  loving  concord  between  the  sense  of 
truth,  the  sense  of  right,  and  the  sense  of  beauty,  until 
the  soul  in  all  its  powers  becomes  one  harmonious  com- 
monwealth, realizing  in  itself  the  strength,  the  order, 
and  the  Hberty  of  the  republic  of  God. 

Seeing  again  that  the  scholar  is  dowered  with  the 
gift  of  discourse,  it  becomes  a  part  of  his  special  mis- 
sion, to  vivify  the  expression  of  moral  and  spiritual 
truths  which  are  current  in  the  world. 

We  are  all  aware  of  the  strong  tendency  which  pre- 
vails to  conventional  modes  of  thought  and  speech. 
Our  truths  dry  up  into  truisms.  Our  principles  become 
petrified  in  propositions.  Our  moralities  shrivel  into 
mummies.  The  decalogue  dwindles  into  a  thing  of 
rote.  Our  very  religion  hollows  out  into  cant,  and 
becomxcs  as  sounding  brass,  or  a  clanging  cymbal. 
There  is  need  of  the  tongue  of  fire,  to  ignite  these 
cold  and  lifeless  forms,  and  to  transform  them  into 
** thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn." 


I20  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Who,  if  not  the  scholar,  will  rub  off  the  rust? 

Who  will  polish  the  steel  so  that  it  will  shine  ? 

Who  will  point  it  so  that  it  will  strike  home? 

Who,  if  not  the  scholar,  will  interpret  to  the  age  its 
own  conscience,  its  own  ethical  enigmas  and  aspira- 
tions ? 

Who,  if  not  he,  will  irradiate  the  law  written  on  the 
heart,  with  the  light  of  the  present  need,  and  of  the 
present  opportunity? 

Who,  if  not  he,  will  breathe  fresh  life  into  the  skel- 
eton, the  abstraction,  the  generalization  of  duty,  and 
change  it  into  the  living  impersonation  of  godlike 
power  and  beauty? 

We  have  heard  that  Webster's  statement  of  his  case 
was  an  argument.  How  often  is  a  Webster  needed  to- 
day to  state  the  case  in  the  court  of  conscience ! 

Again — as  we  watch  the  development  of  society,  we 
observe  that  it  is  not  one  of  uniform  advance. 

All  up  and  down  our  civilization  we  see  survivals  of 
barbarism,  lapses  into  savagery,  the  re-assertion  of 
brutal  instinct,  of  the  sensual  thought,  of  the  unregu- 
lated impulse,  of  the  unreasoning  will. 

We  see  these  barbarisms  in  our  social  customs,  even 
in  the  family  sanctities. 

Note  as  one  alarming  indication  of  it,  the  growing 
laxity  of  our  divorce  legislation,  the  spreading  impa- 
tience of  all  restraint  on  self-indulgence  and  self-will. 

Is  not  the  scholar  engaged  by  all  the  instincts  of  a 
nature  made  fine  by  culture,  and  made  strong  by  self- 
discipline,  and  by  all  the  sympathies  of  his  order  with 
whatever  is  sacred,  pure,  sweet,  and  loving  in  life,  to 
do  all  in  his  power  to  arrest  these  reactionary  move- 
ments, and  to  put  down  these  revolts  of  an  insurgent 
animahsm? 

Or,  if  we  look  at  our  civilization  itself,  we  find  that 


THE  SCHOLAR  AS  AN  ETHICAL  FORCE.       121 

it  is  not  without  its  drawbacks.  There  are  losses  and 
evils  incidental  to  the  very  conditions  of  our  social 
progress.  In  his  interesting  and  suggestive  little  essay 
on  civilization,  John  Stuart  Mill  has  pointed  out  some 
of  these  incidental  disadvantages. 

One  of  these  is  that  in  a  civilized  condition  ''the 
importance  of  the  masses  becomes  constantly  greater, 
that  of  individuals  less."  "All  combination  is  com- 
promise." In  the  crowd  the  angles  of  individuality  are 
rubbed  smooth.  In  a  state  of  organization  men  become 
machines.  Personal  independence  is  sacrificed.  Mob 
law  is  too  often  the  despot  of  the  hour.  The  regulative 
and  corrective  value  of  public  opinion,  as  an  ethical  in- 
fluence, is  largely  weakened. 

As  Mill  says :  "  It  is  not  solely  on  the  private  vir- 
tues that  this  growing  insignificance  of  the  individual 
in  the  mass  is  productive  of  mischief.  It  corrupts  the 
very  fountain  of  the  improvement  of  pubHc  opinion 
itself;  it  corrupts  pubHc  teaching;  it  weakens  the  influ- 
ence of  the  more  cultivated  few  over  the  many." 

Civilization,  again,  induces  ''the  relaxation  of  indi- 
vidual energy,  or  rather  the  concentration  of  it  within 
the  narrow  sphere  of  the  individual's  money-getting 
pursuits."  "The  consequence  is  that,  compared  with 
former  times,  there  is  in  the  more  opulent  classes  of 
modern  civilized  communities  much  more  of  the  ami- 
able and  humane,  and  much  less  of  the  heroic.  There 
has  crept  over  the  refined  classes,  over  the  whole  class 
of  gentlemen  in  England,  a  moral  effeminacy,  an  inap- 
titude for  every  kind  of  struggle.  They  shrink  from 
all  effort,  from  everything  which  is  troublesome  and 
disagreeable.  The  same  causes  which  render  them 
sluggish  and  unenterprising,  make  them,  it  is  true,  for 
the  most  part  stoical  under  inevitable  evils." 

"  But  heroism  -is  an  active,  not  a  passive  quaHty,  and 


122  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS, 

when  it  is  necessary  not  to  bear  pain  but  to  seek  it, 
little  need  be  expected  from  the  men  of  the  present 
day.  They  cannot  undergo  labor,  they  cannot  brook 
ridicule,  they  cannot  brave  evil  tongues." 

Still  further,  in  the  heat  and  stress  of  competition 
which  civilization  engenders,  immoral  standards  of  con- 
duct slip  into  use.  In  the  rush  of  the  street  men  do 
not  pause  upon  moral  niceties.  There  is  no  time  for 
reflection.  No  encouragement  is  given  to  delicacy  of 
conscience.  The  one  motto  is,  success.  Men  play 
high  to  win ;  they  throw  for  all  or  nothing,  and  so  they 
become  reckless.  Gambling  is  a  temptation.  Decep- 
tion is  easy.  Meretricious  wares  flood  the  market. 
Quackery  and  puffery  abound,  for  the  reason  that  any 
voice  not  pitched  in  an  exaggerated  key  is  lost  in  the 
hubbub."  Insincerities  adulterate  the  social  currency. 
MateriaHstic  aims  predominate.  In  the  strife  for  per- 
sonal advantage  men  become  hard,  narrow,  and  selfish, 
while  charity,  considerateness,  delicacy,  and  sympathy 
go  to  the  wall. 

Can  any  one  doubt  that  in  supplying  these  deficien- 
cies, and  in  counteracting  these  evils  of  civilization  a 
special  responsibility  falls  upon  the  scholar?  To  him 
above  all  others  comes  the  call,  in  the  language  of 
Maurice,  with  ''  manly  cheer  to  resist  the  influences  of 
society."  His  vocation  typically  represents  the  excel- 
lencies of  which  these  evils  are  the  negative.  He  is 
the  champion  of  individual  worth.  He  stands  for  the 
one,  who,  with  God,  makes  a  majority.  In  contrast 
with  the  amputations  and  mutilations  which  the  social 
machine  inflicts,  he  speaks  for  a  symmetrical,  full-orbed 
manhood. 

He  represents,  as  Emerson  says:  **The  spiritual 
interests  of  the  world."  He  is  the  Elijah  of  his  age, 
lifting  up  his   voice   against  its  Baals  and  Mammons. 


THE    SCHOLAR    AS    AN   ETHICAL    FORCE.  1 23 

In  him  survives  the  soul  of  chivalry,  of  knighthood, 
without  fear  and  without  reproach,  devoting  itself  to 
the  quest  of  Ideal  Loveliness  and  Goodness. 

He  is  the  Sir  Galahad  of  his  age,  whose  *  *  strength 
is  as  the  strength  of  ten,  because  his  soul  is  pure,"  and 
whom  angel   voices   and  visions   cheer   with   the   call, 
"  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God, 
Ride  on,  the  prize  is  near." 

To  this  knight  of  God  comes  the  summons  to  ride 
forth  to  do  battle  for  the  soul  and  her  rights,  to  smite 
down  her  foes,  Giant  Greed,  Giant  Waste,  Giant  Sham, 
Giant  Flesh,  to  deliver  mind  from  the  thraldom  of 
sense,  to  rescue  conscience  from  the  heels  of  the  mob, 
to  save  faith  from  the  clutch  of  despair. 

''There  can  be  no  scholar,"  says  Emerson,  "  without 
the  heroic  mind." 

''Calm,  patient,  confident,  heroic  in  our  busy  and  ma- 
terial life,"  says  Curtis,  "it  [American  Scholaship], 
vindicates  the  truth  that  the  things  which  are  unseen 
are  eternal." 

"Culture,"  (says  Matthew  Arnold)  "is  a  study  of 
perfection,  and  of  harmonious  perfection,  general  per- 
fection, and  perfection  which  consists  in  becoming  some- 
thing rather  than  in  having  something,  in  an  inward 
condition  of  mind  and  spirit,  not  in  an  outward  set  of 
circumstances." 

To  the  scholar  comes  the  call  accordingly  to  labor  for 
the  "prevalence  of  reason  and  the  will  of  God,"  for  the 
spiritualization  of  life  and  the  ennobling  of  its  condi- 
tions ;  for  its  liberation  from  the  cramp  and  pinch  of  a 
mechanical  social  organization ;  for  the  rule  of  earnest 
conviction,  high  .aspiration  and  the  sway  of  unselfish  love. 
In  an  age  of  cant,  let  his  every  word  have  the  ring  of 
gold.  In  an  age  of  form,  let  his  every  step  have  the 
ring  of  purpose.    '  In  an  age  whose  '  *  vices  fester  in  de- 


124  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

spairs  "  let  his  voice  thrill  the  air  with  the  clarion  note 
of  purity  and  hope. 

In  closing,  let  me  simply  indicate  a  few  of  the  special 
directions  in  which  our  age  calls  for  the  exercise  on  the 
part  of  the  scholar  of  a  distinct  moral  energy  of  pur- 
pose. 

I.  This  is  required  of  him  as  an  intellectual  producer. 
In  the  various  fields  of  activity  in  which  thought  is  pro- 
duced and  embodied,  let  him  think  and  work  on  God's 
lines.  Let  his  influence  in  literature  be  on  the  side  of 
purity,  elevation,  healthy  thinking,  sane  living,  noble 
feeling  and  striving.  Let  it  be  his  aim  to  produce  works 
which  shall  have  in  them  (as  Milton  said),  **the  life- 
blood  of  a  master  spirit,"  and  which  *'the  world  will 
not  wiUingly  let  die" — books  "which  will  awe  men  to 
their  knees  as  if  they  stood  in  presence  of  a  king."  In 
Art,  while  being  true  to  nature,  let  him  be  true  also  to 
himself,  to  the  higher,  truer  self  in  him  and  in  others. 
Let  him  paint  life  as  faithfully  as  he  pleases,  but  let  him 
so  paint  it  that  it  will  breathe  life  and  not  death.  Let 
him  emulate  the  painter  Giotto,  of  whom  it  has  been  said 
that  he  ''renewed  art,  because  he  put  more  goodness 
into  his  heads."  So  in  Science:  Here  most  assuredly 
the  scholar  is  concerned  with  facts.  But  he  above  all 
others  is  concerned  to  demand  that  hypotheses  shall  not 
figure  as  facts,  that  assumptions  shall  not  parade  them- 
selves as  discoveries.  He  above  all  others  must  insist 
that  a  part  shall  not  stand  for  the  whole,  that  Geology 
shall  not  give  the  He  to  Astronomy  ;  that  Physiology 
shall  not  gag  Psychology ;  that  Physics  shall  not  swal- 
low up  Philosophy  ;  above  all,  that  matter  shall  not  post- 
ure as  mind,  that  the  facts  of  sense  shall  give  the  law  to 
Conscience,  that  animal  development  shall  not  furnish 
the  logarithm  for  the  arcs  and  cycles  of  the  soul.  The 
scholar  as  the  representative  of  the  complete  orb  of  the 


THE   SCHOLAR    AS   AN    ETHICAL    FORCE.  1 25 

sciences  and  of  a  symmetrical  manhood,  must  take  his 
stand  against  all  immoral  belittling  partialities  of  any 
onesided  specialty,  speaking  in  the  name  of  science. 

2.  To  the  scholar  of  our  day  comes  again  the  oppor- 
tunity of  exerting  definite  moral  purpose  as  a  social 
factor,  and  especially  as  a  solvent  of  social  antagonisms. 
The  scholar,  so  far  as  culture  has  had  in  him  her  perfect 
work,  is  an  emancipated  person.  He  belongs  to  the 
race,  not  to  any  class  or  set.  The  yoke  of  social  bond- 
age, of  class  prejudice  and  factiousness  sits  lightly  on 
him.  As  Guizot  and  Hallam  have  shown,  none  have 
done  more  than  the  world's  scholars  to  break  down 
the  barriers  of  an  artificial  society,  to  articulate  the 
aspirations  of  a  universal  brotherhood,  to  indicate  the 
claims  of  manly  worth  —  whether  clad  in  homespun  or 
in  purple.  And  it  is  the  spirit  and  the  mission  of  a 
live  scholarship  to  reduce,  more  and  more,  the  artificial 
inequalities  of  society,  to  reconcile  the  antagonisms 
of  classes,  by  leveling  up  the  race  and  by  enlarging 
the  facilities  for  worth  and  ability  to  come  to  the  top. 
Take  the  antagonism  (so  called)  of  Capital  and  Labor. 
The  scholar  knows  that  there  is  no  antagonism  be- 
tween these  two  necessary  factors  of  the  social  organism. 
It  is  impossible  for  him  to  take  a  partizan  position  in  the 
struggle  between  them.  His  natural  position  is  that  of 
a  mediator,  and  to  this  task  of  reconciliation  he  should 
address  himself  in  earnest  —  not  as  a  dilettante  but  as  a 
workman  that  needetli  not  to  be  ashamed ;  risking  per- 
sonal ease  and  popularity  in  the  endeavor  to  remove 
mutual  misconceptions,  to  resist  arrogant  and  selfish 
pretensions  on  either  side,  to  emphasize  the  harmony  of 
interests,  to  inspire  fair  and  generous  dealing  based  on 
genial  sagacity  and  an  intelligent  sympathy.  Culture, 
says  Matthew  Arnold,  "has  but  one  great  passion,  the 


126  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

passion  for  sweetness  and  light.  Yes,  it  has  one  yet 
greater,  the  passion  for  making  them  prevail.  It  is  not 
satisfied  till  we  all  come  to  a  perfect  man.  It  knows  that 
the  sweetness  and  light  of  the  few  must  be  imperfect,  until 
the  raw  and  unkindled  masses  of  humanity  are  touched 
with  sweetness  and  light.  Culture  seeks  to  do  away 
with  classes,  to  make  all  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  sweet- 
ness and  light,  and  use  ideas  as  it  uses  them  itself,  free- 
ly; to  be  nourished  and  not  bound  by  them.  This  is 
the  social  idea;  and  the  men  of  culture  are  the  true 
apostles  of  equality.  The  great  men  of  culture  are 
those  who  have  had  the  passion  for  diffusing,  for  mak- 
ing prevail,  for  carrying  from  one  end  of  society  to  the 
other,  the  best  knowledge,  the  best  ideas  of  their  time." 
3.  In  many  other  ways  is  the  scholar  called  upon  to 
mediate  between  extremes,  in  the  solution  of  social  and 
pubHc  problems.  Thus  we  note  to-day  in  one  direction 
a  strong  tendency  towards  license  and  anarchy — in  the 
opposite  direction  a  strong  tendency  towards  centraliza- 
tion and  despotism.  It  is  for  the  scholar  to  uphold,  on 
the  one  side  the  sanctity  of  law  and  social  order,  on  the 
other  the  claims  of  liberty  and  individual  right.  Here 
we  see  the  spirit  of  bigotry ;  there  the  spirit  of  latitudi- 
narian  negation.  It  is  for  the  scholar  to  maintain  at  once 
the  supreme  value  and  right  of  conviction,  and  the  sacred 
right  of  denial  and  protest  —  to  co-ordinate  the  Everlast- 
ing Yea  with  the  Everlasting  Nay.  In  public  life,  in 
politics  there  are  problems  of  peculiar  perplexity  await- 
ing a  satisfactory  solution.  The  question  respecting  leg- 
islation on  moral  interests,  respecting  the  grounds,  ex- 
tent, limitations  of  such  legislation,  demands  earnest  at- 
tention. The  adjustment  of  legal  requirements  and  per- 
sonal rights,  of  statutory  restrictions  and  individual  lib- 
erties,   challenges  our  thoughtful  consideration.      The 


THE  SCHOLAR  AS  AN  ETHICAL  FORCE.       12/ 

balancing  of  the  relative  claims  of  the  Ideal  and  the 
Possible,  of  the  Perfect  and  the  Practicable,  requires  pa- 
tient and  considerate  treatment.  The  determination  of 
the  spheres  respectively  of  social  authority  and  of  the 
individual  conscience  has  its  practical  embarrassments. 
What  are  the  ethical  rights  of  majorities  ?  What  are  the 
ethical  rights  of  minorities?  What  place  shall  be  ac- 
corded to  moral  instruction  in  our  schools  ?  What  shall 
be  the  standard,  the  text,  of  such  instruction  ?  These 
are  questions  not  to  be  decided  hastily.  They  are  to  be 
settled,  not  on  abstract  grounds  alone,  not  by  impulse, 
by  sentiment,  by  theory.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  nei- 
ther are  they  to  be  settled  capriciously,  empirically, 
without  reference  to  fundamental  principles,  and  to  the 
permanent  authority  of  ethical  obligations  and  interests. 
And  what  I  would  strenuously  insist  on  now,  is  that  in 
the  scholar's  personal  action  on  these  questions,  the  eth- 
ical motive,  the  ethical  interest,  should  be  supreme.  He 
cannot  afford,  it  is  true,  to  be  an  impracticable  idealist, 
to  be  a  transgressor  against  personal  right,  an  aggressor 
on  private  conviction,  a  suppressor  of  free  thought,  a 
contemner  of  social  and  political  equality.  He  cannot 
afford  to  rely  on  legal  proscriptions  and  physical  penal- 
ties, on  mere  numerical  majorities  and  verbal  pronun- 
ciamentos,  apart  from  enlightened  reasons  and  quickened 
consciences.  But  just  as  little  can  he  afford  to  occupy  a 
position  of  ethical  indifference  —  to  be  a  Gallio  caring 
for  none  of  these  things  ;  to  be  a  Pilate  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  asking  '  what  is  truth  ?  '  and  sending  the  Truth 
to  the  Cross ;  to  be  an  Epicurean  fatalistically  acquies- 
cing in  the  necessary  reign  of  folly ;  a  dilettante  sybarite 
squeamishly  shunning  the  foul  odors  of  a  world  gone 
wrong,  with  no  principle,  no  ideal,  no  faith,  no  chivalry, 
no  mission  of  help  and  blessing.     The  scholar  can  be  a 


128  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

leader  only  as  he  proves  himself  to  be  a  man  of  men,  a 
thinker  of  honest  thoughts,  a  speaker  of  living  words,  a 
doer  of  needed  and  earnest  deeds. 

At  the  helm  of  state  in  England  to-day,  stands  one 
of  the  first  scholars  of  the  century.  An  admiring  Con- 
temporary Reviewer  has  said  of  him  :  *'  We  "may  cut  a 
scholar  able  to  adorn  a  university  out  of  Mr.  Gladstone, 
and  then  carve  from  him  a  fine  student  and  reverencer 
of  art ;  next  mark  off  a  reviewer  and  general  litterateur 
whom  professed  authors  will  respectfully  make  room 
for  in  their  ranks  ;  and  not  only  is  there  still  left,  solid 
and  firm,  the  great  Parliamentary  minister,  but  out  of 
the  scattered  fragments  a  couple  of  bishops  could  easily 
be  made,  with,  if  nothing  at  all  is  to  be  wasted,  several 
preachers  for  the  denominations."  For  fifty  years  this 
multiplex  man  has  been  a  conspicuous  figure  in  the 
public  life  of  England.  For  twenty-five  years  he  has 
been  the  greatest  power  in  that  life.  His  name  is 
identified  with  every  important  national  measure  and 
movement  in  the  leading  nation  of  the  globe  for  the 
last  quarter  of  a  century.  His  the  insight  which  dis- 
covers the  need  of  the  hour,  his  the  voice  which  inter- 
prets it  in  words  of  imperishable  eloquence,  his  the 
wisdom  which  devises  the  suitable  and  practicable  rem- 
edy, his  the  courage,  persistence,  energy,  magnetism, 
which  conquer  success.  What  is  the  secret  of  Glad- 
stone's greatness  ? 

First,  his  intellect.  Make  all  due  recognition  of  that. 
**The  world,"  says  some  one,  "lies  at  the  feet  of  its 
first-class  men ;  "  and  Gladstone  is  unquestionably  of 
the  first  order  of  mental  capacity  and  power.  What 
next?  His  scholarship.  Make  full  recognition  of  that 
too.  A  double-first  of  Oxford,  he  has  brought  to  the 
public  service  the  discipline  of  the  university,  the  grace 


THE    SCHOLAR    AS   AN    ETHICAL    FORCE.  I2g 

of  the  classic  page,  the  inspirations  of  the  genius  of 
antiquity,  the  lessons  of  the  past,  the  exactness  of  math- 
ematics and  logic,  the  wisdom,  completeness,  mastery 
and  pose  of  a  wide  and  varied  culture. 

But  genius,  talent,  eloquence  and  scholarship  com- 
bined would  not  give  you  Gladstone.  The  crown  of 
his  greatness  lies  in  neither  of  these.  It  is  his  moral 
earnestness,  his  fidelity  to  conviction,  his  enthronement 
of  principle  above  the  makeshifts  of  the  hour,  his  idea 
of  government  as  (to  use  his  own  words),  a  ''moral 
trusteeship."  A  mole-eyed  generation  has  sneered  at 
these  qualities.  Jingoism  has  had  its  flings  at  him. 
Philistinism  has  had  its  flings  at  him.  London  society 
has  honored  him  with  its  silly  gibes.  But  in  lofty  dis- 
dain of  all  the  petty  shafts  of  malice  he  has  kept  on 
his  course,  ever  following  the  commands  of  duty,  until 
to-day  he  finds 

"the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  purples  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses." 

A  short  time  ago  in  advocating  the  Affirmation  Bill 
in  Parliament,  while  admitting  that  the  Government 
was  probably  damaging  itself  with  the  community  in 
trying  to  pass  it,  he  nevertheless  took  the  lofty  posi- 
tion that  it  was  none  the  less  their  duty  to  pass  it — 
thus  taking  ground,  as  an  eminent  journal  remarks, 
"on  which  few  politicians  in  any  age  have  stood." 
To-day  again  we  see  him  undertaking  the  championship 
of  a  political  measure  which  presages  a  revolution  in 
the  parliarnentary  government  of  Great  Britain,  which 
is  dividing  his  own  party,  costing  him  the  support  of 
many  of  his  most  distinguished  and  loyal  adherents, 
and  which  threatens  the  loss  of  his  own  premiership — 
simply  as  an  act  of  justice   to  a  people   long  ground 


150  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

down  by  oppression.  All  honor  to  William  Ewart 
Gladstone.  Such  a  man  gives  us  hope  for  our  age, 
hope  for  scholarship,  hope  for  humanity. 

"  Victor  he  must  ever  be  ; 
For  though  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break  and  work  their  will ; 
Though  worlds  on  worlds  in  myriad  myriads  roll 
Round  us,  each  with  different  powers 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours. 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  put  our  trust," 


VI. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 

I  HAVE  selected  for  the  subject  of  our  interview  this 
evening  a  poet  not  very  widely  known,  but  I  believe  I 
may  say  best  appreciated  by  those  who  know  him  best. 
I  have  selected  him,  rather  than  some  more  familiar 
name  for  two  reasons.  First,  because  in  treating  of 
him  it  will  be  easier  to  avoid  beaten  paths  :  and  next, 
because  in  literature,  as  elsewhere,  a  new  friendship, 
if  a  worthy  one,  is  a  priceless  treasure  both  for  mind 
and  for  heart. 

The  time  allotted  to  me  is  too  short  for  an  elaborate 
critique.  Much  which  I  should  wish  to  say,  I  must 
leave  unsaid.  Much  on  which  I  should  be  glad  to  en- 
large, I  can  only  touch  upon.  As  to  that  whereof  I 
may  have  most  to  say,  I  can  only  give  a  hint  or  two 
where  it  would  be  easy  to  give  an  essay. 

I  can  only  speak  briefly  of  the  poet,  although  the 
man  was  perhaps  even  more  interesting.  Arthur  Hugh 
Clough  was  born  in  Liverpool,  January  i,  1819.  His 
father's  business  engagements  led  him  to  America,  and 
Arthur  passed  some  years  of  his  earlier  boyhood  in  this 
country,  a  fact  not  without  its  influence  on  his  views 
and  sympathies  as  a  man.  He  was  educated  first  at 
Rugby,  during  the  first  years  of  Arnold's  headmaster- 
ship.  He  proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  that 
famous  teacher's  scholars.     Dean  Hawley  writes  of  him  : 

(131) 


132  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

**0f  all  the  scholars  at  Rugby  School  in  the  time 
when  Arnold's  influence  was  at  its  height,  there  was 
none  who  so  completely  represented  the  place  in  all  its 
phases  as  Clough."  *'  Over  the  career  of  none  of  his 
pupils  did  Arnold  watch  with  a  livelier  interest  or  a 
more  sanguine  hope."  From  Rugby  he  went  to  Ox- 
ford. It  was  a  time  when  in  the  language  of  Thomas 
Hughes,  ''the  whole  university  was  in  a  ferment." 
The  Tractarian  controversy  was  at  its  height.  The  ques- 
tions stirred  by  it  were  occupying  the  most  earnest  and 
profound  intellects  in  the  university.  Clough,  as  one  of 
these,  became  deeply  absorbed  in  philosophic  and  relig- 
ious inquiries,  and  in  the  pursuit  of  a  broader  culture 
than  that  involved  in  the  university  course.  The  result 
was  that  although  he  came  to  be  recognized  as  a  man 
of  marked  personality  and  power,  his  Oxford  career  was 
less  brilliant  in  its  academic  successes  than  had  been 
anticipated.  He  won  a  fellowship  indeed,  but  did  not 
retain  it  long,  on  account  of  the  growing  divergence  of 
his  religious  convictions  from  those  dominant  in  the 
university.  In  1848-49,  Clough  was  on  the  continent, 
and  witnessed  some  of  the  revolutionary  struggles  of 
those  memorable  years  both  in  Paris  and  in  Rome. 
He  witnessed  the  siege  of  Rome  by  the  French,  and 
the  overthrow  of  the  Roman  Republic,  and  has  recorded 
his  impressions  of  the  same  in  his  poem,  Amours  de 
Voyage..  Upon  his  return  he  was  appointed  to  a  Pro- 
fessorship in  the  London  University,  but  resigned  it  in 
1852,  and  came  to  America.  He  settled  in  Cambridge, 
Mass.,  where  he  engaged  in  private  instruction.  With- 
in less  than  two  years  he  returned  to  England,  having 
been  appointed  to  a  place  in  the  Educational  Depart- 
ment of  the  Privy  Council.  His  arduous  labors  in  office 
undermined  his  strength.  He  again  visited  the  conti- 
nent for  his  health,  but  in  vain.      In  November  1861, 


ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH.  I 33 

he  died  in  Florence,  where  he  was  buried  in  the  Prot- 
estant Cemetery. 

Looking  first  at  Clough's  poetry  on  its  outer  side,  or 
the  side  next  to  nature,  I  find  it  to  be  characterized  by 
a  robust  and  blithe  vitality,  a  healthy  responsiveness  of 
soul  to  all  brieht  and  tonic  influences  from  without. 
There  is  in  it  a  peculiar  freshness  and  crispness  of  im- 
pression, a  wonderful  buoyancy,  exhilaration,  and  glow, 
as  from  one  of  his  own  early  morning  plunges  into  the 
basin  of  a  mountain  stream.  His  heart  beats  joyously 
to  the  pulse  of  earth  and  sky,  sun  and  sea.  His  pic- 
tures are  full  of  life  and  movement.  They  are  per- 
vaded by  a  decided,  though  not  excessive  realism. 
He  never  indeed  wearies  or  bewilders  us  with  a  multi- 
plicity of  minute  and  unimportant  details,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  pre-Raphaelites.  His  sketches  are  broad 
and  massive  rather  than  complex  and  microscopic. 
Such  details  as  he  gives  are  those  of  most  subtle  sug- 
gestion. For  the  rest,  his  art  abides  in  the  most  ex- 
pressive features  of  the  scene  he  describes,  those  which 
embody  its  Hfe,  its  soul,  its  atmosphere.  Two  or  three 
of  his  pictures  will  serve  to  illustrate  these  characteristics. 

The  first  is  of  a  *' favorite  spot,"  near  Venice  : 

*'  Where  by  masses  blue 
And  white  cloud-folds  I  follow  true, 
The  great  Alps  rounding  grandly  o'er. 
Huge  arc,  to  the  Dalmatian  shore." 

The  next  a  sea-scape  on  the  coast  of  Scotland : 

"As  at  return  of  tide,  the  total  weight  of  ocean 
Drawn  by  moon  and  sun  from  Labrador  and  Greenland, 
Sets-in  amain,  the  open  space  betwixt  Mull  and  Scarba 
Heaving,  swelling,  spreading  the  might  of  the  mighty  Atlantic ; 
There  into  cranny  and  slit  of  the  rocky  cavernous  bottom 
Settles  down,  and  with  dimples  huge  the  smooth  sea-surface 
Eddies,  coils,  and  whirls;  by  dangerous  Corryvreckan." 


134  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Once  more  the  early  morning  in  a  large  city : 

"  All  the  great  empty  streets  are  flooded  with  broadening  clearness, 

Which,  withal,  by  inscrutable  simultaneous  access 

Permeates  far  and  pierces  to  the  very  cellars  lying  in 

Narrow  high  back-lane,  and  court,  and  alley  of  alleys  ; 

He  that  goes  forth  to  his  walk,  while  speeding  to  the  suburb 

Sees  sights  only  peaceful  and  pure  ;  as  labourers  setthng 

Slowly  to  work,  in  their  limbs  the  lingering  sweetness  of  slumbers, 

Humble  market-carts,  coming-in,  bringing-in,  not  only 

Flower,  fruit,  farm-store,  but  the  sounds  and  sights  of  the  country 

Dwelling  yet  on  the  sense  of  the  dreaming  drivers  ;  soon  after 

Half-awake  servant-maids  unfastening  drowsy  shutters 

Up  at  the  windows,  or  down,  letting  in  the  air  by  the  door-way  ; 

School-boys,  school-girls  soon,  with  slate,  portfolio,  satchel, 

Hampered  as  they  haste,  those  running,  these  others  maidenly 

tripping ; 
Early  clerk  anon  turning  out  to  stroll,  or  it  may  be 
Meet  his  sweet-heart  waiting  behind  the  garden-gate  there  ; 
Merchant  on  his  grass-plat,  haply  bare-headed  ;  and  now  by  this 

time 
Little  child  bringing  breakfast  to  father  that  sits  on  the  timber 
There  by  the  scaffolding  ;  see  she  waits  for  the  can  beside  him ; 
Meantime  above  purer  air  untarnished  of  new-lit  fires, 
So  that  the  whole  great  wicked  artificial  civilized  fabric  — 
AIL  its  unfinished  houses,  lots  for  sale  and  railway  outworks  — 
Seems  reaccepted,  resumed  to  Primal  Nature  and  Beauty." 

In  connection  with  this  last  extract  I  may  note  in 
passing  that,  after  the  blind  Milton,  Clough  is  beyond 
any  modern  poet  of  my  acquaintance  the  priest  of  Day, 
of  Light.  This,  I  take  it,  is  but  one  phase  of  his  pas- 
sion for  reality  of  which  still  another  phase  shows  itself 
in  his  Greek  love  for  definiteness  and  absoluteness,  and 
his  contempt  for  Gothic  vagueness  and  obscurity. 

"Come,  leave  your  Gothic  worn-out  story, 
San  Giorgio  and  the  Redentore  : 
I  from  no  building  gay  or  solemn, 
Can  spare  the  shapely  Grecian  column. 


ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH.  I 35 

Maturer  optics  don't  delight 
In  childish  dim  religious  light. 
In  evanescent  vague  effects 
That  shirk,  not  face  one's  intellects  ; 
They  love  not  fancies  just  betrayed, 
And  artful  tricks  of  light  and  shade. 
But  pure  form  nakedly  displayed, 
And  all  things  absolutely  made." 

So  in  style  he  exacts  above  all  else  clearness. 
"  Writing's  golden  word  what  is  it 
But  the  three  syllables  —  ex-pli-cit  ?  " 
Say,  if  you  cannot  help  it,  less. 
But  what  you  do  put,  put  express. 
I  fear  that  rule  won't  meet  your  feeling  ; 
"You  think  half  showing,  half  concealing, 
Is  God's  own  method  of  revealing." 

That  this  decided  realism  is  with  him  a  principle,  the 
outgrowth  of  strong  conviction,  that  it  does  not  proceed 
from  insensibility  to  the  charms  of  sentiment,  or  the  fas- 
cinations of  the  ideal,  is  abundantly  evident.  Indeed 
his  poetry  derives  a  large  measure  of  its  significance 
from  the  attraction  which  on  the  one  hand  sentiment 
and  ideality  exercise  over  him,  and  the  vigor  with  which 
on  the  other  hand  he  resists  or  at  least  controls  that  at- 
traction. 

The  **  vague  desires,"  which  come  and  go,  which  with 
their  fleeting  beauty  so  often  woo  men  and  women  to 
their  own  undoing,  he  would  question  them,  bid  them 
say  whence  and  what  they  are  ? 

"  A  message  from  the  blest 
Or  bodily  unrest ; 
A  call  to  heavenly  good, 
A  fever  in  the  blood  ; 
What  are  ye,  vague  desires, 
What  are  ye?" 

Can  anything  be  more  dreamy,  more  mystical  than 
the  following? 


136  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

"Is  it  impossible,  say  you,  these  passionate  fervent  impulsions, 
These  projections  of  spirit  to  spirit,  these  inward  embraces, 
Should  in  strange  ways,  in  her  dreams,  should  visit  her,  strengthen 

her,  shield  her  ? 
Is  it  possible  rather  that  these  great  floods  of  feeling 
Setting-in  daily  from  me  towards  her  should,  impotent  wholly. 
Bring  neither  sound  nor  motion  to  that  sweet  shore  they  heave  to  ? 
Efflux  here,  and  there  no  stir  nor  pulse  of  influx  ?  " 

But  Clough's  healthy  love  of  simplicity,  his  resolute 
demand  for  definiteness  and  reality,  leads  him  to  shun 
all  mere  sentiments  as  unsatisfactory,  all  pure  idealism 
as  untrustworthy.  For  himself  at  least  he  will  have  no 
illusion.  Steadfastly  and  sternly,  as  Elijah  to  Baal,  does 
he  refuse  to  bow  the  knee  to  any  idol,  whether  of  the 
cave,  or  of  the  market,  or  of  the  temple. 

"  I  will  look  straight  out,  see  things,  not  try  to  evade  them ; 
Fact  shall  be  fact  for  me  ;  and  the  truth,  the  truth  as  ever, 
Flexible,  changeable,  vague,  and  multiform,  and  doubtful." 

Even  in  the  blaze  of  victory  he  is  not  blind  to  the 
fact,  to  the  base  alloy  which  lies  in  the  residuum. 

"Victory !  Victory  !  Victory  !  —  Ah,  but  it  is,  believe  me, 
Easier,  easier  far  to  intone  the  chant  of  the  martyr. 
Than  to  indite  any  paean  of  any  victory.     Death  may 
Sometimes  be  noble  ;  but  life,  at  best,  will  appear  an  illusion, 
While  the  great  pain  is  upon  us,  it  is  great ;  when  it  is  over 
Why  it  is  over.     The  smoke  of  the  sacrifice  rises  to  heaven 
Of  a  sweet  savor,  no  doubt,  to  Somebody ;  but  on  the  altar 
Lo,  there  is  nothing  remaining  but  ashes  and  dirt  and  ill  odor." 

In  close  connection  with  this  realistic  simplicity,  is 
his  earnest  love  for  naturalness,  his  strong  recoil  from 
all  conventionalism.  He  would  lead  us  away  from  the 
*' great  wicked,  artificial,  civilized  fabric"  of  modern 
society,  with  its  restrictions  and  repressions,  its  affecta- 
tions and  shams,  its  restless  fevers  and  moody  paroxysms, 
its  morbid  excitements  and  petrifying  apathies,  back 
to    *' Primal  Nature  and  Beauty."     His  poetry  is  one 


ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH.  1 37 

continual  protest  against  the  dwarfing  and  warping 
influences  from  which  man  and  woman  are  suffering. 
Especially  does  he  feel  **  the  old  knightly  religion,  the 
chivalry  semi-quixotic,  stir  in  his  veins,"  and  prompt 
him  to  sally  forth  like  another  Amadis  to  release 
woman  from  the  enchanted  castle  of  convention.  With 
amusing  extravagance  the  radical  and  utilitarian  hero 
of  his  Long  Vacation  Pastoral  invokes  the  Millennium 
of  the  Emancipation  of  Women  through  their  restora- 
tion to  naturalness  and  trueness  of  life,  abandoning 

"  Boudoir,  toilette,  carriages,  drawing-room,  and  ball-room. 

*  -jfr        *        * 

Bending  with  blue  cotton  gown,  skirted  up  over  striped  linsey- 
woolsey. 

Milking  the  kine  in  the  field  like  Rachel  watering  cattle. 

¥r  ¥r  *  ^ 

Or  with  pail  upon  head,  like  Dora  beloved  of  Alexis. 
•X-        *        ^        * 

Home  from  the  river  or  pump  moving  stately  and  calm  to  the 

laundry. 

*  -x-        *        ^ 

Or  if  you  please  with  the  fork  in  the  garden  uprooting  potatoes. 
So  feel  women,  not  dolls," 

And  so  realize  in  their  life  the  architectural  law  of 
Christian  Cathedrals,  that  ''use  be  suggestive  of  beau- 
ty." 

But  this  revolt  of  our  poet  against  the  artificial  ex- 
ternalism  of  Modern  Life,  with  its  conventional  lip- 
moralisms,  and  its  actual  heart-immoralities  finds  a  still 
more  earnest,  and  at  times,  bitter  expression.  With 
what  keen  satire  he  expounds  the  fashionable  Law  of 
Duty. 

"  Duty — that's  to  say,  complying 
With  whate'er's  expected  here; 
On  your  unknown  cousin's  dying, 
Straight  be  ready  with  the  tear, 


138  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Upon  etiquette  relying, 

Unto  usage  naught  denying, 
Blush  not  even,  never  fear. 

*        -x-        •}«•        * 

With  the  form  conforming  duly. 
Senseless  what  it  meaneth  truly. 

-;t         ^         *         * 

Duty,  'tis  to  take  on  trust, 

What  things  are  good,  and  right,  and  just, 
And  whether  indeed  they  be  or  be  not, 

Try  not,  test  not,  feel  not,  see  not. 
■X-  -x-  -Jt  * 

Stout,  sturdy  limbs  that  Nature  gave, 

And  be  drawn  in  a  bath  chair  along  to  the  grave. 

'Tis  the  stern  and  prompt  suppressing 
As  an  obvious  deadly  sin. 

All  the  questioning  and  the  guessing 
Of  the  soul's  own  soul  within. 

^  -Jf  -X-  * 

'Tis  the  blind  non-recognition. 

Or  of  goodness,  truth,  or  beauty. 
Save  by  precept  and  submission  ; 

Moral  blank  and  moral  void. 
Life  at  very  birth  destroyed. 

Atrophy,  exinanition  ! 
Duty !  yea,  by  duty's  prime  condition, 

Pure  nonentity  of  duty." 

With   what   terrible  irony  he   preaches  the  conven- 
tional gospel  of  submission : 

"  This  stern  necessity  of  things 
On  every  side  our  being  rings  ; 
Our  eagle  aims  still  questioning  round. 

Find  exit  none  from  that  great  bound. 
When  once  her  law  dictates  the  way, 

The  wise  thinks  only  to  obey, 
Take  life  as  she  has  ordered  it, 
And  come  what  may  of  it,  submit, 
Submit,  submit. 


ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH.  1 39 

We  must,  we  must : 

Howe'er  we  turn,  and  pause,  and  tremble, 
Howe'er  we  shrink,  deceive,  dissemble, 
Whate'er  our  doubting,  grief,  disgust. 
The  hand-is  on  us  and  we  must ; 

We  must,  we  must. 
*Tis  common  sense  and  human  wit, 
Can  find  no  better  name  than  it. 
Submit,  submit." 

These  lines  suggest  another  feature  of  Clough's  poetic 
temperament,  which  I  may  be  allowed  to  call  its  other- 
sidedness.  He  is  never  satisfied  with  holding  up  one 
side  only  of  a  question,  even  although  that  side  be  his 
own.  Thus  while  his  predominant  habit  of  thought 
and  expression  is^  as  we  have  seen,  that  of  a  hearty 
realism,  we  stumble  occasionally  upon  an  idealism 
which  seems  wafted  from  some  old  Hindu  Purana,  or 
some  SibyUine  leaf  of  Emersonian  Transcendentalism. 
In  Amours  de  Voyage  he  gives  expression  to  the 
Hamlet-like  irresolution  of  the  speculative  spirit,  its 
hesitancy  to  conclude  on  any  definite  course  of  action, 
lest  some  fallacy  should  lurk  in  the  premises,  lest  some 
fatal  weakness,  or  as  fatal  perversity  of  will  should 
occasion  our  drifting  into  some  current  which  might 
sweep  us  we  know  not  whither. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  be  moved ;  for  the  will  is  excited,  and  action 
Is  a  most  dangerous  thing  ;  I  tremble  for  something  factitious, 
Some  malpractice  of  heart  and  illegitimate  process ; 
We  are  so  prone  to  these  things  with  our  terrible  notions  of  duty." 

Yet  when  has  the  clarion-call  of  duty  been  more 
bravely  or  cheerily  sounded  than  in  the  following  lines: 

"  Go  from  the  east  to  the  west  as  the  sun  and  the  stars  direct  thee, 
Go  with  the  girdle  of  man,  go  and  encompass  the  earth, 

Not  for  the  gain  of  the  gold,  for  the  getting,  the  hoarding,  the 
having. 
But  for  the  joy  of  the  deed,  but  for  the  duty  to  do ; 


140  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Go  with  the  spiritual  life,  the  higher  vohtion  and  action, 

With  the  great  girdle  of  God,  go  and  encompass  the  earth." 

It  must  be  confessed  however,  that  the  predominant 
mood  of  the  poet  is  not  this  mood  of  resolute  ag^grcss- 
iveness.  It  is  rather  one  of  hesitancy,  suspense,  longing 
for  action  paralyzed  by  doubt,  or  by  disgust  with  the 
conditions  of  it.  When  the  tutor,  the  **  grave  man 
Adam"  remarks: 

"There  is  a  great  Field-Marshal,  my  friend,  who  arrays  our  bat- 
talions ; 
Let  us  to  Providence  trust,  and  abide  and  work  in  our  stations." 

The  eager,  impetuous  Philip  retorts : 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  your  Providence  puzzles  me  sadly: 

Children  of  Circumstance    are  we  to  be  ?  You  answer,  On  no 
wise! 
Where  does  Circumstance  end,  and  Providence  where  begins  it? 

What  are  we  to  resist,  and  what  are  we  to  be  friends  with? 
If  there  is  battle,  'tis  battle  by  night :  I  stand  in  the  darkness, 

Here  in  the  melee  of  men,  Ionian  and  Dorian  on  both  sides, 
Signal  and  password  known;  which  is  friend  and  which  foeman? 

Is  it  a  friend  ?  I  doubt,  tho'  he  speak  with  the  voice  of  a  brother. 
Still  you  are  right,  I  suppose ;  you  always  are  and  will  be. 

Tho'  I  mistrust  the  Field-Marshal,  I  bow  to  the  duty  of  order. 
Yet  is  my  feeling  rather  to  ask,  where  is  the  battle  ? 

Yes,  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  cry,  notwithstanding  my  Elspie, 
O  that  the  armies  indeed  were  arrayed !  O  joy  of  the  onset! 

Sound,  then,  Trumpet   of  God,  come  forth,  Great  Cause,  to 
array  us. 
King  and  Leader  appear,  thy  soldiers  sorrowing  seek  thee. 

Would  that  the  armies  indeed  were  arrayed,  O  where  is  the 
battle  ! 
Neither  battle  I  see  nor  arraying,  nor  King  in  Israel, 

Only  infinite  jumble  and  mess  and  dislocation. 
Backed  by  a  solemn  appeal,  '  For  God's  sake  do  not  stir  there.'  " 

The  poem  which  gives  us  the  deepest  insight  into 
Clough's  inner  intellectual  life,  with  its  questings,  and 
struggles,  its  divided  purposes  and  baffled  aims,  as  well 
as  into  the  peculiar  phases  of  his  personality  and  experi- 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH.  I4I 

ence,  is  the  posthumous  poem  called  Dipsychus.  It  is 
at  the  same  time  one  of  the  most  significant  exponents 
of  that  peculiar  result  of  our  Nineteenth  Century  cul- 
ture which  Clough  so  well  represents;  that  almost 
morbid  othersideness  which  induces  a  sort  of  indefinite 
intellectual  suspense,  which  shrinks  from  making  a  pos- 
itive decision  between  rival  creeds  or  tendencies,  or 
from  committing  itself  to  any  definite  line  of  sympathy 
or  action. 

In  form  the  poem  is  a  dialogue  carried  on  indirectly 
for  the  most  part  between  a  young  man  named  Dipsy- 
chus and  a  spirit  who  speaks  from  behind  the  scenes 
rather  than  from  the  stage.  As  the  name  suggests, 
Dipsychus  represents  that  double-mindedness,  that 
quality  of  thought,  inclination  and  purpose,  which  the 
mental  and  ethical  conditions  of  our  age  tend  to  foster. 
He  is  haunted  by  the  Ideal,  but  hemmed  in  by  the 
Actual.  His  dreams  are  ever  stranding  themselves  on 
the  stern  and  rock-bound  coast  of  Fact.  He  would  fain 
beheve,  but  Truth  and  man  seem  to  be  forever  playing 
hide-and-seek  with  each  other,  and  faith  seems  little 
better  than  a  conventional  decency.  He  would  fain 
worship,  but  the  Supreme  Power  in  the  heavens,  seems 
either  unable  or  unwilling  to  mend  matters  here,  and  the 
policy  of  non-interference  between  man  and  Him  will 
probably  v/ork  as  well  as  any.  He  would  fain  act,  but 
action  is  full  of  risks,  even  betraying  men  into  prema- 
ture folly. 

There  is  another  quality  in  the  poem  represented  by 
Dipsychus  and  the  Spirit.  The  latter  is  nameless,  but 
evidently  personifies  the  mocking,  lying,  debasing  Power, 
which  is  ever  luring  man  from  the  path  of  earnest  faith 
and  high  endeavor.  Rather  an  interesting  Devil,  of 
Goethe's  line  rather  than  Milton's.  Indeed  the  poet 
comes  near  identifying  him  v/ith  Mephistopheles,  but  he 


1^2  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

has  some  original  traits  of  his  own.  The  English  Mephis- 
topheles  does  not,  like  the  German,  represent  the  abso- 
lute negation  of  truth  and  goodness.  There  is  more 
flesh  and  blood  in  his  composition.  He  breakfasts  on 
the  London  Times,  and  dines  on  roast  beef,  and  evidently 
has  no  taste  for  sauer-kraut  or  metaphysics.  He  is  emi- 
nently respectable — none  the  less  *' devilish"  however, 
as  Mrs,  Browning  would  say,  for  that.  He  is,  to  be  sure, 
a  high-bred  gentleman,  believes  in  the  code  of  honor, 
hates  the  May-meetings,  and  the  angel  whine, 

*'  That  snuffle  human,  yet  divine  ;" 

but  then,  although  *'reHgion  may  not  be  his  forte," 
he  will  have  **no  infidelity,  that's  flat."  He  does  not 
approve  the  * 'strong  Strauss  smell"  of  some  of  Dipsy- 
chus'  verses,  and  advises  him : 

"Take  larger  views,  (and  quit  your  Germans  ;) 
From  the  Analogy  and  Sermons, 
I  fancied — you  must  doubtless  know — 
Butler  had  proved  an  age  ago 
That  in  religious,  as  profane  things, 
'Twas  useless  trying  to  explain  things. 
^        *        *        * 

Like  a  good  subject,  and  wise  man, 
Believe  whatever  things  you  can, 
Take  your  religion,  as  'twas  found  you, 
And  say  no  more  of  it,  confound  you." 

In  a  word,  he  is  the  devil  of  what  Matthew  Arnold 
calls  Philistinism,  of  imperviousness  to  spiritual  grace 
and  power,  of  a  conventional  faith-no-faith,  sincere  only 
in  the  service  of  insincerities,  valuing  religion  only  for 
its  material  utilities,  knowing  no  higher  trinity  than 
the  lust  of  the  flesh,  the  lust  of  the  eyes,  and  the  pride 
of  life.      Hear  him : 

What  we  all  love  is  good  touched  up  with  evil, 
Religion's  self  must  have  a  touch  of  devil." 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH.  I43 

"  This  world  is  very  odd,  we  see. 
We  do  not  comprehend  it, 
But  in  one  fact  we  all  agree, 
God  won't,  and  we  can't,  mend  it." 

"  Being  common  sense  it  can't  be  sin, 
To  take  it  as  I  find  it, 
The  pleasure  to  take  pleasure  in, 
The  pain,  try  not  to  mind  it." 

Day  by  day  he  weaves  his  withes  around  Dipsychus, 
who  struggles  in  the  toils,  but  in  vain.  The  iron 
enters  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  soul,  and  he  submits: 

"  Therefore,  farewell !  a  long  and  last  farewell. 
Ye  pious  sweet  simplicities  of  life. 
Good  books,  good  friends,  and  holy  moods  and  all 
That  lent  rough  life  sweet  Sunday-seeming  rest, 
Making  earth  heaven-like  ;  welcome,  wicked  world. 
The  hardening  heart,  the  calculating  brain. 
Narrowing  its  doors  to  thought,  the  lying  lips. 
The  calm  dissembling  eyes,  the  greedy  flesh, 
The  world,  the  devil.    Welcome  !  Welcome  !  Welcome  !  " 

In  religion  Clough  represents  those,  and  they  are  not 
a  few  in  number  or  importance,  who  are  drawn  to 
Christianity  as  a  Divine  supernatural  religion  by  the 
infinite  satisfaction  which  it  ministers  to  our  higher 
spiritual  wants,  who  realize  what  an  infinite  loss  would 
be  its  disappearance  from  the  universe  of  moral  ideas 
and  forces,  who,  in  a  word,  recognize  in  it  the  Ideal 
Religion,  but  who  are  so  far  influenced  by  the  Nega- 
tive Criticism  of  the  age,  that  they  fail  to  find  adequate 
support  for  its  external  reality  as  a  religion  of  Fact. 
In  the  Easter  Poem,  to  which  the  Spirit  in  Dipsychus 
attributes  that  strong  Strauss  smell,  there  is  a  tone  of 
inexpressible  sadness  over  the  lost,  unrisen  Christ : 

"  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust. 
As  of  the  unjust  also  of  the  just. 
Yea  of  that  Just  One  too  ! 


144  LLEWELYN    10 AN    EVANS. 

This  is  the  one  sad  Gospel  that  is  true, 

Christ  is  not  risen  ! 
Eat,  drink,  and  die,  for  we  are  souls  bereaved ; 
Of  all  the  creatures  under  heaven's  wide  cope, 
We  are  most  hopeless  who  had  once  most  hope, 
And  most  beliefless  that  had  most  beheved." 
■3t         -Jt         *         -x-         * 

"  Here  on  our  Easter  Day, 
We  rise,  we  come,  and  lo  !  we  find  him  not, 
Gardener  nor  other  on  the  sacred  spot ; 
Where  they  have  laid  him  there  is  none  to  say, 
No  sound,  nor  in,  nor  out, — no  word 
Of  where  to  seek  the  dead,  or  meet  the  living  Lord, 
There  is  no  glistering  of  an  angel's  wing, 
There  is  no  voice  of  heavenly  clear  behest ; 
Let  us  go  hence  and  think  upon  these  things. 

In  silence,  which  is  best, 

Is  He  not  risen  ?  No ! 

But  lies  and  moulders  low, 

Christ  is  not  risen  !  " 

And  not  seldom  does  Clough  give  utterance  to  that 
sense  of  orphanage,  of  homelessness,  of  a  soul  adrift, 
which  so  many  in  our  day  have  felt  when  robbed  of 
their  Lord  and  their  faith. 

V  Come  home,  come  home  !  and  where  a  home  hath  he. 
Whose  ship  is  driving  o'er  the  driving  sea  ? 
Through  clouds  that  mutter,  and  o'er  waves  that  roar. 
Say  shall  we  find  or  shall  we  not.  a  shore. 
That  is,  as  is  not  ship  or  ocean  foam, 
Indeed,  our  home  !  " 

In  a  flippant  scepticism  or  a  godless  materialism  at 
least  Clough's  spirit  finds  no  anchorage. 

"  As  of  old  from  Sinai's  top, 

God  said  that  God  is  one, 
By  science  strict  so  speaks  He  now, 

To  tell  us,  there  is  none  ! 
Earth  goes  by  chemic  forces ;  Heaven's 

A  Mechanique  Celeste ! 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH.  I45 

And  heart  and  mind  of  human  kind, 
A  watch-work  as  the  rest ! 

Is  this  a  voice,  as  was  the  voice 

Whose  speaking  told  abroad, 
When  thunder  pealed,  and  mountain  reeled, 

The  ancient  Truth  of  God  ? 
Ah,  not  the  voice,  'tis  but  the  cloud, 

The  outer  darkness  dense, 
Where  image  none,  nor  e'er  was  seen, 

Similitude  of  sense." 

"  It  may  be  true 
That  while  we  walk  the  troublous  tossing  sea, 
That  when  we  see  the  o'er-topping  waves  advance, 
And  when  we  feel  our  feet  beneath  us  sink, 
There  are  who  walk  beside  us  ;  and  the  cry- 
That  rises  so  spontaneous  to  the  lips, 
The  '  Help  us  or  we  perish '  is  not  nought, 
An  evanescent  spectrum  of  disease  ; 
It  may  be  that  in  deed,  and  not  in  fancy, 
A  hand  that  is  not  ours  upstays  our  steps, 
A  voice  that  is  not  ours  commands  the  waves, 
Commands  the  waves  and  whispers  in  our  ear, 
O  thou  of  little  faith,  why  didst  thou  doubt?  " 


VII. 
A  SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY. 

In  undertaking  at  your  request  to  deliver  a  Lecture 
auxiliary  to  your  study  of  Classic  Literature  in  this 
year's  course,  I  have  been  somewhat  troubled  with 
what  the  French  call  an  embarrassment  of  riches.  After 
taking  several  outlooks  over  the  field  I  have  at  last  con- 
cluded to  give  you  a  hasty  sketch  of  Greek  Poetry. 
Greek  Poetry  rather  than  Latin  for  the  reason  that  beau- 
tiful as  the  latter  may  be  and  not  without  originality, 
the  former  was  its  inspiration  and  its  model.  Greek 
Poetry  for  the  reason  that  the  whole  domain  of  Greek 
Literature  is  too  vast  for  a  single  survey,  and  that  Poet- 
ry rather  than  History,  Oratory,  or  Philosophy,  gives 
us  the  truest  and  fullest  expression  of  the  Greek  mind 
in  Literature.  But  Greek  Poetry  again  is  a  boundless 
study,  which  in  all  its  wealth  of  detail  could  no  more  be 
crowded  into  a  single  lecture  than  the  Alps  into  a  cab- 
inet picture.  I  can  only  point  out  to  you  a  few  of  the 
salient  peaks  in  that  wonder-land. 

I  have  asked  myself —  wherein  does  the  chief  signifi- 
cance and  value  of  Greek  Poetry  consist?  The  answer 
to  this  question,  I  believe  to  be :  —  In  its  function  as 
the  expression  of  the  character,  the  tendencies,  the  deep- 
est thought,  the  inmost  spiritual  life  and  development 
of  a  people,  the  most  interesting,  versatile,  exuberant, 
beauty-loving,  symmetrical,  and  in  some  respects  the 
(146) 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  1 47 

most  highly  cultivated  which  the  world  has  ever  seen. 
My  chief  endeavor  to-night  accordingly  will  be  to  give 
you  through  Greek  song  something  of  an  insight  into 
the  Greek  soul,  —  that  soul  which  not  only  in  its  own 
records,  not  only  in  ancient  Roman  Literature,  but  in 
all  the  best  Modern  Literature  is  still  marching  on. 

The  literary  development  of  the  Greeks  has  five  peri- 
ods, or  stages.  The  first  in  Pre-Historic.  We  are  as  yet 
in  the  morning  twilight  of  legend  and  myth.  The 
world's  rulers  are  the  demi-gods.  The  literary  voice  of 
the  period  is  the  Epic,  the  poetry  of  heroes  and  gods. 
Through  the  gray  gloom  the  colossal  image  of  Homer 
looms  above  the  Greek  world  like  the  shadow  of  the 
Brocken,  a  vague  and  wierd  mystery.  This  period  reaches 
down  to  the  first  Olympiad,  B.  C.  'j']^. 

The  second  period  is  transitional.  We  are  in  the  light 
of  the  morning  dawn.  History  is  forming,  Political 
changes  are  taking  place.  The  demi-gods  are  followed 
by  men,  tyrants,  oligarchies,  democracies.  The  super- 
abundant Hfe  of  a  young  civihzation  shoots  out  into 
colonies.  The  growing  order  of  society  crystallizes  into 
the  laws  of  Solon,  Lycurgus,  and  others.  Ionian  Athens 
and  Doric  Sparta  are  getting  ready  for  their  grand  duel. 
Philosophy  is  syllabling  its  first  thoughts,  mainly  in  hex- 
ameters. Poetry  sings  in  plaintive  elegiacs,  stirring  lyr- 
ics, ethical  and  political  apothegms,  trumpet-tongued 
battle-songs.  This  period  runs  through  300  years,  end- 
ing with  the  overthrow  of  the  Persians  at  Marathon, 
Thermopylae,  Salamis,  B.  C.  490-480. 

The  third  period  is  climactic,  ushered  in  by  Pindar's 
immortal  lyre.  'Tis  the  golden  noon-tide  of  Greece. 
Athens  is  the  eye,  the  brain  and  soul,  the  queen  of 
Hellas.  Socrates  teaches  Plato,  Greece,  the  ages,  to 
think.  Thucydides  shows  how  History  should  be  writ- 
ten.    Pericles  rules  the  state  as  the  inspired  administra- 


148  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

tor  of  the  goddesses  of  wisdom  and  beauty.  Art  in  Phid- 
ias reahzes  a  perfection  which  is  still  the  world's  despair. 
The  master-pieces  of  the  drama  burst  into  being  as  the 
constellations  burst  on  the  eye  when  the  sun  goes  down. 
This  meridian  hour  is  brief  as  it  is  glorious.  It  covers 
about  four-score  years,  ending  with  the  departure  of  the 
sceptre  from  Athens  to  Sparta,  about  B.  C.  404. 

The  fourth  period  is  an  age  of  transition,  this  time 
along  the  downward  arc.  Greece  has  passed  her  zenith, 
although  the  noontide  glory  still  irradiates  the  brows 
of  her  Plato,  Aristotle,  and  Demosthenes.  Her  genius 
produces  less  but  diffuses  itself  further.  Athens  is  a 
slave,  but  the  winged  words  of  her  poets  and  think- 
ers still  bring  the  world  to  her  feet.  A  new  Greece 
springs  up  in  Macedonia,  heretofore  scorned  as  barba- 
rian. Alexander  the  pupil  of  Aristotle,  with  Homer 
for  his  pillow,  goes  forth  as  a  new  incarnation  of  Achil- 
les to  conquer  and  to  Hellenize  the  Old  World  of  his 
day.  Rhetoric  is  the  rage  of  the  schools.  Painting  is 
the  prevailing  mode  in  Art.  In  the  New  Comedy  of 
Menander,  Poetry  comes  down  from  Olympus,  parts 
company  with  demi-gods  and  heroes,  to  interpret  the 
prose  of  every-day  life.  This  period  ages  like  the  for- 
mer, lasts  about  fourscore  years,  ending  with  the  death 
of  Alexander,  B.  C.  323. 

The  fifth  and  last  period  is  the  age  of  decay,  reach- 
ing down  through  six  centuries  to  the  final  extinction  of 
Greek  civilization,  300  years  after  Christ.  Athens 
shares  her  literary  supremacy  with  Alexandria,  and  a 
little  later  Rome  and  then  Byzantium  are  taken  into  the 
co-partnership.  Great  and  splendid  names  indeed  are  not 
wanting  in  this  period — Euclid  in  geometry,  Ptolemy 
in  physical  science,  Plutarch  in  biography,  Lucian  in  po- 
lemics and  irony,  Epictetus  in  philosophy,  Longinus  in 
criticism ;  Neo-Platonists,  Plotinus,  Porphyry  and  Proclus, 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  149 

besides  Romans  like  Lucretius  and  Marcus  Aurelius  in 
whom  Greek  thought  talks  Latin.  Poetry  warbles  sweet 
idyls  among  the  olives  of  Sicily.  But  look  at  the  period 
as  a  whole.  The  blight  of  decay  is  only  too  evident. 
(I  am  speaking,  you  will  remember,  of  the  Greek  Liter- 
ature now — it  was  otherwise  in  the  Latin. )  It  was  the 
period  of  poetasters  rather  than  of  poets ;  of  sophists 
rather  than  of  philosophers ;  of  rhetoricians  rather  than 
orators;  of  dilettanteism  rather  than  art;  of  butterflies 
rather  than  Titans.  The  old  World  in  fact  was  dying. 
As  has  been  said:  ''While  Hypatia  was  lecturing  on 
Homer,  the  Christians  were  converting  the  world." 

With  this  preliminary  outline  of  the  more  general 
development  of  Greek  Literature,  let  us  retrace  our  steps 
to  consider  more  closely  the  leading  developments  of 
Poetry. 

In  the  discussion  of  a  subject  it  is  not  always  easy  to 
know  where  to  begin.  Fortunately  no  such  embarrass- 
ment besets  us  in  the  consideration  of  our  present  theme. 
Greek  Poetry  has  its  rise  in  the  ocean.  That  ocean  is 
Homer.  Without  Homer,  Greek  Poetry  would  have 
been  impossible.  With  such  a  beginning  any  other 
sequel  is  inconceivable.  Since  the  discovery  of  the 
inland  seas  of  equatorial  Africa,  the  Nile  has  ceased  to 
be  a  mystery.  Postulate  Homer,  and  Greece  follows  as 
a  necessity,  with  Athens  and  Sparta,  the  Parthenon  and 
the  Areopagus,  Pindar  and  ^schylus,  Solon  and 
Socrates,  Themistocles  and  Alexander.  No  doubt,  as 
there  were  kings  before  Agamemnon,  so  there  must 
have  been  poets  before  Homer.  Such  a  magnificent 
Nile  of  song  did  not  leap  out  of  the  barren  rock  at  the 
touch  of  any  wand,  be  it  of  inspiration  itself.  For  even 
inspiration  must  have  its  conditions,  its  environment,  its 
antecedents.  And  in  Homer  there  is  something  besides 
inspiration,  something  besides  genius ;  there  is  art,  high, 


150  LLEWELYN    lOAN  EVANS. 

consummate  art.      But  art,  like  Rome,  is  not  built  in  a 
day. 

As  regards  the  personality  of  Homer,  I  will  assume 
that  your  study  of  the  subject  has  at  least  put  you  in 
possession  of  the  present  status  of  that  much-vexed 
problem  of  criticism.  It  may  not  have  been  given  to 
you,  any  more  than  to  others,  to  learn  just  how  many 
there  were  of  him,  how  many  times,  or  in  what  places 
he  was  born.  We  may  probably  assume  that,  like  the 
demon  in  the  gospels,  who,  when  asked  his  name, 
answered:  **  My  name  is  legion,"  Homer  is  a  noun 
both  of  the  singular  and  the  plural  number.  Criticism 
of  details  has  established  his  plurality ;  criticism  of  the 
whole  has  no  less  convincingly  proved  his  singularity. 
Some  of  you  saw  not  many  days  ago  the  sun  with  his 
parhelia  in  our  western  sky.  The  parhelia  were  many, 
the  sun  is  one.  Homer  had  his  parhelia,  how  many  we 
know  not;  but  Homer  is  one.  Absorbing  into  himself 
the  culture  and  the  art  of  pre-historic  Greece,  of  which 
we  know  naught  except  as  it  is  reflected  in  his  undying 
lines,  the  man  Homer  becomes  the  school  Homer;  the 
man  the  author  (I  take  it)  of  the  original  Iliad,  the 
school  the  manifold  author  of  our  present  Iliad,  and  of 
the  Odyssey,  together  with  certain  other  Homeric  frag- 
ments, some  of  which  are  more  or  less  doubtful. 

But  what  of  the  poetry  of  Homer?  What  is  its  place 
and  function  in  the  history  of  literature?  Here  let  us 
turn  aside  to  glance  for  a  moment  at  that  which  consti- 
tutes the  material,  the  substratum  of  the  Homeric,  as 
indeed  of  nearly  all  the  Greek  poetry.  I  refer  to  the 
Greek  mythology. 

We  cannot  pause  now  to  consider  the  philosophy 
either  of  mythology  in  general,  or  of  the  Greek  myth- 
ology in  particular.  How  did  these  Greek  myths  orig- 
inate?    How  far  did  they  grow  out    of    the    histories 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  I5I 

of  actual  personalities?  How  far  did  they  represent 
external  facts,  e.  g.  solar  or  meteorological  phenomena  ? 
How  far  were  they  the  products  of  imagination  and 
fancy?  How  far  were  they  beheved?  What  precise 
place  did  they  occupy  in  the  creeds  and  lives  of  the 
ancients  ?  These  and  like  questions  have  a  fascinating 
interest  for  the  student  of  history,  but  their  considera- 
tion would  lead  us  too  far  from  the  work  before  us  at 
this  time.  Fortunately  their  significance  in  Greek  poetry 
is  almost  wholly  independent  of  the  conclusions  at 
which  we  might  arrive  in  regard  to  these  points. 
Suffice  it  here  to  say  that  mythology  represents  what 
was  most  vital  in  the  religion  of  the  Greeks,  what  was 
deepest  and  most  comprehensive  in  their  philosophy, 
what  was  most  graceful  in  their  imaginings,  most  symmet- 
rical in  the  portraiture  of  character,  most  sublime  in  the 
achievements  of  heroism,  most  tremendous  in  the  issues 
of  destiny. 

By  way  of  introduction  let  us  observe  that  recent 
ethnographical  and  philological  researches  have  brought 
to  light  such  analogies  between  the  first  inhabitants  of 
Greece  and  the  Aryan  nationalities  which  settled  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ganges  and  of  the  Euphrates,  as  justify 
us  in  assuming  their  common  origin  and  the  identity  of 
their  primitive  beUefs.  The  worship  of  the  Pelasgians, 
the  original  Hellenic  population  of  Greece,  was  like 
that  of  the  early  Indians  and  Persians,  the  simple  deifi- 
cation of  nature.  Zeus,  for  example,  like  the  Hindu 
Indra  represents  the  sky  at  v/ar  with  the  Titans,  the 
"first-born  of  all  shaped  and  palpable  gods,"  as  Keats 
calls  them,  the  immediate  successors  of  the  primeval 
Darkness.  Apollo  represents  the  sun,  Demeter  the 
earth,  Poseidon  the  fertihzing  power  of  water,  Hephaes- 
tus the  volcanic  forces  and  then  fire  as  an  industrial 
element,  Dionysus  (Bacchus)  the  productive,  overflow- 


152  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

ing,  intoxicating  power  of  nature.  And  so  for  the  rest. 
But  this  natural  worship  was  not  long  in  undergoing 
a  transformation,  when  transplanted  from  the  dreamy 
banks  of  the  Ganges,  or  the  starry  plain  of  the  Euphra- 
tes, to  the  sunny  isles  and  coasts  of  the  Mediterranean. 
To  come  at  once  to  the  Greeks,  note  to  begin  with  the 
influence  of  these  physical  surroundings.  The  temper- 
ature, character  of  climate,  and  the  susceptibility  to 
cultivation  of  a  soil  not  excessively  fertile,  favored  an 
active  temperament  and  industrious  habits  among  the 
people.  **The  Greeks,"  says  Thucydides,  "have 
learned  from  their  fathers  that  they  must  pay  the  price 
of  labor  and  effort  in  order  to  obtain  any  advantage." 
Note  again  the  geographical  position  of  Greece  at  the 
confluence  of  east  and  west,  near  the  junction  of  the 
great  division  of  the  world.  ''This  small,  many-toothed 
peninsula,"  says  Dr.  Schafif,  *'was  inserted  by  Provi- 
dence in  the  midst  of  the  three  divisions  of  the  Old 
World  to  educate  and  refine  them.  And  here  the  im- 
portance of  the  maritime  facilities  of  Greece  becomes 
apparent,  bounded  as  it  is  by  an  infinitely  undulating 
line  of  sea-coast,  forming  fine  natural  harbors,  separated 
by  the  sea  from  Italy,  Africa,  (and  yet)  linked  to  them 
by  its  islands."  ''Whilst  in  the  vast  monarchies," 
writes  De  Pressense,  "framed  in  the  image  of  sur- 
rounding nature,  that  sprung  up  in  those  immense 
plains  of  Asia,  which  are  intersected  by  lofty  mountains, 
and  where  none  but  the  king  rose  above  the  level, 
religion  never  got  beyond  pantheism,  sometimes  mons- 
trous, sometimes  grand,  but  always  fatalistic  because 
affirming  nature's  triumph  over  man,  the  latter  vindi- 
cated himself  in  a  less  favored  land,  in  one  in  which 
being  nearly  encircled  by  the  sea,  man  was  constantly 
solicited  to  movement  and  action,  and  brought  into  the 
great  current  of  ideas  and  civilization," 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  1 53 

Not  less  important  were  the  social  and  political  influ- 
ences which  moulded  the  Greek  development.  It  would 
be  difficult,"  says  Schlegel,  **  to  point  out  a  more  strik- 
ing difference,  a  more  decided  opposition  in  the  whole 
circle  of  the  intellectual  and  moral  character  and  habits 
of  nations,  as  far  at  least  as  the  sphere  of  known  his- 
tory extends,  between  the  seclusive  and  monotonous 
character  of  Asiatic  intellect,  the  generally  unchange- 
able uniformity  of  Oriental  manners  and  Oriental  society, 
and  thp  manifold  activity  and  the  varied  Hfe  of  the 
Greeks  in  the  first  flourishing  ages  of  their  history. 
This  amazing  diversity  in  the  moral  and  intellectual 
habits  of  the  Greeks  appears  not  only  in  their  legisla- 
tion, their  forms  of  government,  their  manners,  occu- 
pation and  usages  of  life,  but  in  their  various  and  widely 
dispersed  settlements  and  colonies,  in  their  descent 
which  was  composed  of  so  many  heterogeneous  ele- 
ments, in  the  first  seeds  of  their  civilization,  as  well 
as  their  distribution  into  hostile  tribes,  and  great  and 
petty  states,  and  even  in  their  traditions,  their  history, 
and  the  arts  and  forms  of  arts  to  which  these  gave  rise ; 
finally  in  a  science  engaged  in  incessant  strife,  and 
marching  from  system  to  system  amid  the  noise  and 
tumult  of  opposition.  In  Asia  the  prevalent  feeling 
was  monarchical,  proceeding  from  and  returning  again 
to  unchangeable  unity.  On  the  other  hand,  science 
like  life  itself  was  thoroughly  republican;  and  if  we 
meet  with  particular  thinkers  who  leaned  toward  this 
Asiatic  doctrine  of  unity,  we  must  regard  this  as  only 
an  exception,  a  system  adopted  from  a  love  of  change, 
or  out  of  a  spirit  of  opposition  to  the  vulgar  and  gen- 
erally received  opinion  that  all  in  nature,  that  the  world 
as  well  as  man,  was  in  a  state  of  perpetual  movement, 
constant  change,  and  freedom  of  life.  Even  the  fabu- 
lous world  of  Grecian  divinities,  as  it  has  been  painted 


(54  LLEWELYN   lOAN   EVANS. 

by  their  poets,  has  a  repubHcan  cast ;  for  there  every- 
thing is  in  a  state  of  change,  of  successive  renovation, 
and  of  mutual  colHsion  in  the  war  of  natural  elements, 
in  the  hostility  of  old  and  new  deities,  of  the  superior 
and  inferior  gods,  of  giants  and  of  heroes,  presenting  as 
it  does  a  state  of  poetical  anarchy." 

The  three  typical  developments  of  Aryan  mythology 
are  found  in  India,  Persia,  and  Greece.-  In  the  East 
the  predominance  of  nature  and  her  energies  over  man 
and  his  energies  produced  Pantheism.  In  the  West  the 
triumph  of  man  over  nature  resulted  in  Humanism. 
Persia,  intermediate  between  the  two,  where  the  con- 
tending forces  were  nearly  balanced,  stopped  at  Dual- 
ism. In  India  we  see  Fatalism,  the  reign  of  absolute, 
inexorable  law,  by  which  man  is  hopelessly  enslaved. 
In  Dualism  we  see  an  attempt,  not  very  successful,  to 
escape  from  Fatalism  by  the  recognition  of  two  antag- 
onistic principles.  In  Greece  accordingly  we  find  the 
most  emphatic  recognition  given  anywhere  by  the  an- 
cient or  the  heathen  world,  of  individual  freedom,  and 
the  superiority  of  m.an  to  nature,  of  mind  to  matter. 
**It  was  in  and  through  the  Greeks,'*  says  Dr.  Schaff, 
*'that  the  human  mind  first  awoke  to  a  consciousness 
of  itself,  bursting  away  from  the  dark  powers  of  nature, 
rising  above  the  misty  original  broodings,  and  begin- 
ning to  inquire  with  clear  head  and  keen  eye  into  the 
causes,  laws,  and  ends  of  all  existence." 

The  mythology  of  Greece  became  in  this  way  essen- 
tially humanistic,  resulting  on  the  one  hand  in  the 
humanizatlon  of  the  Deity,  on  the  other  in  the  apoth- 
eosis of  humanity. 

The  foundations  of  this  Humanism  were  laid  in  the 
heroic  age  of  Greece,  which  may  be  sub-divided  into 
two  periods,  the  pre-historic,  or  legendary,  when  the 
struggle  between  the  primeval  barbarism  and  the  nas- 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  FOETRY.  1 55 

cent  civilization  of  Greece  was  carried  on,  and  the  his- 
toric, culminating  in  the  triumph  of  Greece  over  Per- 
sia, ''that  historical  Iliad,"  as  it  has  been  called, 
''almost  as  grand  as  the  other,  which  Miltiades  and 
Themistocles  inscribed  with  their  sword. "  "  Heroism, " 
says  De  Pressense,  "laid  the  foundation  of  that  bold 
apotheosis  of  humanity  which  was  so  long  celebrated 
on  the  radiant  summits  of  Olympus.  .  .  .  The  ancient 
religion  of  nature  was  to  be  effaced  by  the  worship  of 
deified  heroes.  .  .  .  There  was  no  longer  that  sterile 
bewilderment  inspired  by  the  spectacle  of  the  irresist- 
ible forces  of  nature.  They  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
a  higher  force,  the  power  of  intelligence  and  freedom 
which  had  been  so  often  exhibited  in  the  struggles  that 
attended  the  formation  of  the  different  states.  This 
power  concentrated  on  a  narrower  field,  bore  a  deeper 
impress  of  the  individual  character  than  it  did  in  the 
revolutions  of  the  vast  empires  of  Asia.  It  matters 
little  that  the  victories  of  Hercules  and  Perseus  belong 
to  fable ;  the  sentiment  revealed  by  these  myths  is  not 
the  less  an  historical  fact,  surpassing  in  importance  all 
others,  since  it  was  this  sentiment  that  moulded  Greece, 
its  history  as  well  as  its  religion.  The  ideal  of  a  hero, 
that  is  to  say  the  consciousness  of  a  human  ideal,  was 
the  landmark  dividing  the  east  from  the  west,  the  land 
of  light,  the  enchanting  land  of  Hellas,  from  that  vast 
empire  prostrate  under  the  inflexible  law  of  nature." 

And  here  we  come  upon  the  immense  significance  of 
Homer,  in  the  literature  of  Greece.  He  is  the  first,  as 
he  is  the  greatest  voice  of  this  Humanism.  He  is  the 
high-priest  of  the  new  Faith,  as  well  as  the  builder  of 
the  temple  in  which  its  "fair  humanities"  were  to  be 
forever  enshrined.  He  interpreted  Greece  to  herself, 
creating  in  the  same  breath,  as  has  been  said,  her 
poetry  and  her  religion.     His    "Olympus  is  an   ideal 


156  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Greece,  the  gods  form  a  council  of  Hellenic  kings." 
(De  Pressense.)  The  gods  of  his  Pantheon  are  men  of 
larger  mould,  of  mightier  energies,  of  intenser  passions. 
They  are  not  mere  dramatizations  of  natural  powers  or 
processes,  bound  up  with  nature  and  incapable  of  trans- 
cending the  limits  of  her  operations.  They  live  in  an 
ideal  realm  of  free,  independent  personality.  Homer  is 
the  poet  of  anthromorphism.  In  profane  literature  he 
is  the  first  on  the  one  hand  to  interpret  the  Divine 
through  the  human,  on  the  other  to  find  in  the  human 
the  reflection  of  the  Divine.  His  poetry  is  the  eter- 
nal protest  of  art  as  well  as  of  religion,  of  the  imagi- 
nation as  well  as  the  conscience  against  the  obliteration 
of  a  Personal  Life  and  Will  out  of  Nature,  and  against 
Fatalism  which  settles  down  upon  the  blank.  His  tales 
of  the  wrath  of  Achilles  and  the  woes  of  Ilium,  of  the 
wanderings  of  Ulysses,  and  the  trials  of  Penelope  are 
the  assertion  of  the  mental  and  spiritual  freedom  of 
humanity,  and  of  the  affinity  of  its  life  to  that  of  God. 
It  will  readily  be  seen  what  an  immense  gain  to  the 
resources  of  the  poetic  art  must  have  accrued  from  this 
new  departure.  Not  only  is  Poetry  made  the  organ  of 
the  human  heart,  the  voice  of  its  passions,  its  loves 
and  its  hates,  its  hopes  and  fears,  but  the  introduction 
of  gods  and  demi-gods  on  the  theatre  of  human  activity, 
their  association  with  mortals  in  the  experiences  of  life 
and  the  bonds  of  doom,  gives  a  larger  outline  to  char- 
acter, a  vaster  scope  to  action,  a  wider  horizon  to  life, 
and  withal  a  profounder  meaning  to  destiny.  Of 
especial  significance  is  the  glorification  of  manhood 
through  the  advent  of  the  Homeric  hero,  the  man  of  god- 
like lineage,  mien  and  powers.  Homer  is  the  world's 
prophet  of  Heroism.  Granted  that  the  legendary 
heroism  of  the  pre-Homeric  age  made  ready  for  Homer, 
it  was  Homer  nevertheless  who  enthroned  Heroism  as 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  I 57 

the  Greek  ideal,  and  as  a  permanent  power  in  history. 
*' Achilles,"  says  Symonds,  "more  than  any  character 
of  fiction  reflects  the  qualities  of  the  Greek  race  in  its 
heroic  age.  His  vices  of  passion  and  ungovernable 
pride,  his  virtue  of  splendid  human  heroism,  his  free 
individuality,  asserted  in  the  scorn  of  fate,  are  repre- 
sentative of  that  Hellas,  which  afterwards  at  Marathon 
and  Salamis  was  destined  to  inaugurate  a  new  era  of 
spiritual  freedom  for  mankind."  This  is  why  the  Iliad 
became,  as  is  been  so  often  called,  the  Bible  of  the 
Greeks.  Alexander  was  a  later  avatar  of  Achilles. 
He  "expressed  in  real  life,"  says  Mr.  Symonds,  "that 
ideal  which  in  Homer's  poetry  had  been  displayed  by 
Achilles.  He  set  himself  to  imitate  Achilles.  .  .  . 
On  all  his  expeditions  he  carried  v/ith  him  a  copy  of 
the  Iliad,  calling  it  a  perfect,  portable  treasure  of  mili- 
tary virtue.  It  was  in  the  spirit  of  the  Homeric  age 
that  he  went  forth  to  conquer  Asia.  And  when  he 
reached  the  plain  of  Troy,  it  was  to  the  tomb  of 
Achilles  that  he  paid  special  homage."  And  all  the 
way  through  the  ages  from  Alexander  down  to  Carlyle, 
the  nineteenth  century  Apostle  of  Hero-Worship,  who 
died  the  other  day  lamenting  the  death  of  heroes.  Homer 
is  the  great  father  of  heroic  thought  and  inspiration  in 
the  education  of  the  race.  For  me  I  doubt  very  much 
whether  Mr.  Huxley's  crayfish  would  prove  an  adequate 
substitute  for  old  Homer  in  this  particular.  Give  us 
the  crayfish,  but  by  all  means  leave  us  the  Iliad. 

The  next  great  name  in  Greek  poetry  is  that  of 
Hesiod.  Here  again  I  must  pass  by  for  want  of  time, 
the  critical  questions  connected  with  his  person 
and  poetry,  and  limit  myself  to  the  question :  What 
is  the  significance  of  Hesiod  in  the  development  of 
Greek  poetry,  and  of  the  thought  of  which  that  poetry 
is  the  exponent  ?  -The  story  which  Hesiod  tells  us  of 


158  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

his  own  call  to  the  poetic  office  will  help  us  to  answer 
this  question.  One  night  the  Muses  appeared  to  him 
as  he  was  watching  his  flocks  on  Mt.  Helicon,  and  be- 
stowed on  him  the  gift  of  poetry,  having  first  addressed 
him  in  these  words:  "Ye  country  shepherds,  worthless 
wretches,  slaves  of  the  belly!  although  we  often  tell 
falsehoods  and  pretend  that  they  are  true,  yet  we  can 
tell  the  truth  when  it  pleases  us."  Here,  as  Ottfried 
Miiller  says,  two  things  are  noticeable:  *' Poetical  ge- 
nius is  represented  as  a  free  gift  of  the  Muses,  imparted 
to  a  rough  unlettered  man,  and  awakening  him  from  his 
brutish  condition  to  a  better  life.  Secondly,  this  gift  of 
the  Muses  is  to  be  dedicated  to  the  diffusion  of  truth, 
the  poet  thus  indicating  the  serious  character  of  his  po- 
etry, not  without  an  implied  censure  of  other  poems 
which  admitted  of  an  easier  and  freer  play  of  fancy." 

Thus  we  find  Hesiod  introducing  a  new  element  into 
Literature,  the  element  of  reflection,  self-observation, 
meditation  on  life  and  destiny,  an  earnest  questioning 
after  realities.  Homer  represents  the  idealism  of 
Greece,  Hesiod  its  realism.  There  is  a  basis  of  truth 
for  the  remark  of  the  old  Spartan  king,  quoted  by 
Plutarch,  that  while  Homer  was  the  bard  of  warriors 
and  noblemen,  Hesiod  was  the  singer  of  the  Helots. 
We  may,  at  least,  say,  that  Hesiod  was  not  in  sympa- 
thy with  the  development  represented  by  Homer.  He 
was  a  conservative.  He  believed  in  the  old  gods,  the 
Titans,  the  natural  deities,  rather  than  the  upstart  Olym- 
pians, glorified  Dy  Homer.  He  shrank  from  the  new 
Homeric  anthropomorphism.  He  loved  to  commune 
with  the  divinities  of  heaven  and  air  and  earth  and  sea, 
and  to  contemplate  them  in  their  cosmogonic,  rather 
than  their  historic  relations.  "  He  looked  at  life  with  a 
melancholy  eye."  History  to  him  was  not  progress, 
but  degeneration  —  from  the  Age  of  Gold  to  that  of 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  1 59 

Silver,  then  to  Bronze  and  then  to  Iron.  "Would  that 
I  had  not  been  born  in  the  hard  age  of  iron  !"  is  his 
lament.  He  sings  the  praises  of  labor  (one  of  his  po- 
ems is  named  Works,  or,  as  it  was  called  later.  Works 
and  Days),  of  frugality,  simplicity  and  integrity.  In 
Atlas  he  deifies  the  virtue  of  endurance.  In  Prome- 
theus and  Epimetheus  he  personifies  mental  activities, 
which  Mr.  Beecher  (I  believe)  anglicizes  as  Foresight 
and  Hindsight.  ''Justice,"  he  sings  in  noble  strains, 
''always  ends  in  being  triumphant  in  human  affairs; 
and  if  her  way  is  steep,  if  the  gods  placed  sweat  and 
pain  in  the  path  of  virtue,  the  road  grows  easier  along 
the  heights." 

Hesiod  has  a  still  further  significance  as  the  progeni- 
tor of  the  philosophic  poetry  of  Greece.  Two  charac- 
teristics of  his  poetry  gave  him  this  position.  The  one 
was  the  theogonic  and  cosmogonic  element.  (One  of 
his  poems  was  named  "The  Theogony. ")  This  fur- 
nished the  material  for  those  semi-poetic,  semi-philo- 
sophical speculations  about  the  origin  of  the  universe, 
the  history  of  matter  and  mind,  the  relations  and  ac- 
tivities of  the  atoms,  elements,  forces  by  which  the 
world  has  been  built  up,  which  constituted  the  Didactic 
Epic  of  Greece.  The  other  characteristics  of  his  po- 
etry which  formed  a  foundation  for  the  Didactic  Epic 
was  its  shrewd,  homely,  practical  wisdom.  His  own 
poetry  is  full  of  a  proverbial  wisdom,  and  becomes  a  re- 
ceptacle into  which  a  large  mass  of  the  gnomic  poetry 
of  the  Greeks  drifted.  From  the  combination  of  these 
two  elements  in  Hesiod,  the  theology  and  cosmology 
of  his  Theogony,  and  the  practical  wisdom  of  his 
Works  (and  Days)  grew  up  the  philosophic  schools  of 
Greek  poetry. 

It  will  not  be  necessary  to  dwell  long  on  this  school. 
For  the  most  part'  the  poetic  form  in  which  its  founders 


l60  LLEWELYN    lOAN  EVANS. 

clothed  their  speculations  was  an  accident.  Verse  was 
the  literary  medium  of  the  day  and  they  adopted  it  ac- 
cordingly. It  is  a  fact  which  is  perhaps  not  generally 
appreciated  that  literary  Prose  marks  an  advanced  stage 
of  culture.  The  world  scribbles  its  way  through  poor 
or  mediocre  verse  into  tolerable  prose.  Philosophy  her- 
self, Metaphysics  even,  lisps  its  numbers  during  her 
teens.  So  the  earliest  school  of  Greek  philosophy,  the 
Eleatic,  sought  to  solve  the  riddle  of  existence,  and  to 
formulate  the  abstractions  of  geometry  and  the  antino- 
mies of  Being  and  Not-Being  in  lumbering  hexameters. 

Undoubtedly  these  philosophic  verses  showed  at 
times  a  marked  poetic  flavor,  as  in  Xenophon's  Par- 
menides,  and  especially  in  Empedocles,  that  strange, 
romantic  figure,  who  stalked  through  the  streets  of 
Agrigentum,  robed  with  Tyrian  purple,  crowned  with 
laurel,  shod  with  golden  sandals,  a  self-deluded  mystic, 
who  fancied  himself  to  be  a  god,  and  imposed  his  delu- 
sion on  others,  staying  plagues,  working  enchantments, 
and  yet  who  (as  has  been  said)  ''made  himself  a  poet 
among  philosophers  and  a  philosopher  among  poets, 
without  thereby  impairing  his  claims  to  rank  highly, 
both  as  a  poet  and  as  a  thinker  among  the  most  distin- 
guished men  of  Greece."  Symonds  finds  both  in  the 
quality  of  his  imagination  and  in  many  of  his  utter- 
ances a  striking  resemblance  to  Shelley.  In  view  of  his 
accounts  of  animal  organisms  he  has  also  been  called 
*'the  oldest  Greek  forerunner  of  Darwin."  His  death 
by  leaping  into  the  crater  of  Etna  (celebrated  by  many 
poets,  among  them  Matthew  Arnold)  is  probably  a  legend, 
although  ben  trovato,  as  the  Italians  say,  as  a  fitting 
close  to  his  sensational  career. 

The  philosophic  poetry  signalized  itself  still  further  by 
carrying  out  the  hostility  of  Hesiod  to  the  anthropo- 
morphic   tendencies   of  the    Homeric-heroic    develop- 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  l6l 

ment  of  Greek  thought  and  life.  The  latter  develop- 
ment indeed,  was  largely  in  the  ascendency,  reaching 
its  culmination  in  the  deification  of  Hercules,  but  the 
other  tendency  as  it  survived  in  the  later  and  nobler 
philosophy  of  Greece,  notably  the  Socratic  and  Platonic, 
was  a  valuable  counterpoise  to  the  onesided  humanism 
of  the  former. 

The  poetry  which  we  have  thus  far  considered  was 
mainly  that  of  the  hexameter  (the  metre  I  need  scarcely 
say  somewhat  imperfectly  represented  in  English  by 
Longfellow's  Evangeline).  A  modification  of  this  metre 
took  place  in  the  elegy,  in  which  the  hexameter  (line  of 
six  feet)  alternates  with  the  pentameter  (Hne  of  five  feet), 
which  has  a  feeble,  hesitating  movement.  The  elegy 
probably  originated  in  Asia  Minor,  and  was  adopted 
exclusively  by  poets  of  the  Ionian  race  for  the  expres- 
sion of  emotional  and  reflective  sentiments.  The  word 
was  first  applied  to  funeral  dirges,  and  then  to  plaintive 
laments  in  general,  with  a  flute  accompaniment,  and 
was  afterwards  enlarged  so  as  to  include  martial,  senti- 
mental (amatory),  and  gnomic  poetry.  In  Tyrtaeus 
martial  poetry  is  a  clarion,  stirring  the  Spartan  youth 
to  deeds  of  imperishable  renown.  It  is  the  lion  soul  of 
Leonidas  marching  in  verse.  In  Mimnermus  the  sen- 
timental elegy  glorifies  youth  and  love,  breathes  the 
languor  of  unmitigated  ennui,  and  chants  the  alphabet 
of  an  infant  epicureanism.  The  Gnomic  poetry  is  the 
poetry  of  the  proverb-mongers,  of  common  sense,  of 
prudence,  of  the  state,  of  the  civic  virtues,  of  social 
ethics,  of  justice.  Some  of  this  class  of  poets  were  men 
"inside  of  politics,"  as  we  sometimes  say.  Hear  how 
one  of  them  sings:  ''The  citizens  seek  to  overthrow 
the  state  by  love  of  money,  by  following  indulgent  and 
self-seeking  demagogues,  who  neglect  religion  and  per- 
vert the  riches  of  the  temples.      Yet  justice,  silent  but 


l62  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

all-seeing,  will  in  time  bring  vengeance  on  them  for  these 
things.  War,  want,  civil  discord,  slavery,  are  at  our 
gates;  and  all  these  evils  threaten  Athens  because  of  her 
lawlessness.  Whereas  good  laws  and  government  set 
all  the  state  in  order,  chain  the  hands  of  evildoers,  make 
rough  places  plain,  subdue  insolence,  and  blast  the  bud- 
ding flowers  of  crime,  set  straight  the  crooked  ways  of 
tortuous  law,  root  out  sedition,  quell  the  rage  of  strife ; 
under  their  good  influence  all  things  are  fair  and  wise 
with  men."  That  was  Solon,  and  he  actually  believed 
and  practiced  all  that,  heathen  as  he  was.  It  would  be 
curious  to  see  the  beliefs  and  practices  of  our  modern 
Solons  verified  by  themselves.  I  fancy  that  beside  that 
old  Greek  they  would  cut  rather  a  sorry  figure. 

In  the  later  Gnomic  poets  we  find  along  with  much 
that  is  tender  and  true  a  sceptical  and  pessimistic 
spirit — a  questioning  of  the  equity  of  Heaven's  dealings 
with  men,  a  gloomy  and  even  despairing  view  of  the 
future.  "One  hideous  Charybdis,"  says  Simonides, 
"swallows  all  things — wealth  and  mighty  virtue."  "It 
is  the  best  of  all  things,"  says  Thespius,  "for  the  sons 
of  earth  not  to  be  born,  nor  to  see  the  bright  rays  of 
the  sun,  or  else  after  birth  to  pass  as  soon  as  possible 
the  gates  of  death,  and  to  lie  deep  down  beneath  a 
weight  of  earth."  A  sentiment  whose  echoes  we  hear 
again  and  again  in  the  later  poetry  of  Greece. 

Symonds  truly  observes  that  to  modern  readers  the 
philosophy  of  these  poets  may  seem  trite,  their  inspira- 
tion tame,  their  style  pedestrian.  It  should  be  remem- 
bered however,  that  to  the  Greeks,  even  to  the  educated 
among  them,  to  Socrates  and  his  friends,  the  orators 
and  the  tragedians,  their  authority  in  morals  was  absolute, 
and  their  maxims  which  the  progress  of  the  centuries 
has  made  common-place,  were  oracles  of  superhuman 
wisdom. 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  1 63 

The  poetry  thus  far  considered  was  based  on  the 
heroic  metre,  the  feet  of  which  were  dactyls  and  spon- 
dees. We  now  come  to  a  species  of  poetry  based  on 
the  iambus  and  the  trochee.  Special  import  attaches  to 
the  introduction  into  poetry  of  the  iambus,  as  "nearest 
in  cadence  to  the  language  of  common  Hfe,"  and  as 
being  ''the  fit  vehicle  for  dialogue,  and  for  all  poetry 
that  deals  with  common  and  domestic  topics." 

This  metre  had  long  been  popular  among  the  Greeks 
at  their  banquets,  and  especially  at  certain  festivals  for 
the  purpose  of  raillery.  But  the  first  to  capture  the 
Iambus  (the  origin  of  the  name  is  unknown)  for  the 
more  serious  purposes  of  poetry  was  Archilochus,  the 
founder  of  the  school  of  the  Satirists,  and  a  very  con- 
spicuous name  among  the  Greeks,  ranking  next  to 
Homer  himself  A  genuine  Bohemian,  as  he  would  be 
called  if  living  to-day,  he  had  a  strange  and  checkered 
career.  "He  seems  to  have  been  formed  by  the  facts 
of  his  biography,"  says  one  critic,  "for  the  creator  of 
satire."  "In  conciseness,  terseness  and  bitterness," 
says  another,  "he  may  justly  be  called  the  Swift  of 
Greek  Literature."  The  most  distinguished  of  his  fol- 
lowers in  the  school  of  satire  was  Simonides  of  Amor- 
gos,  whose  libels  on  women  have  furnished  the  gall  for 
the  women-haters  ever  since. 

A  still  more  important  development  of  Song  is  the 
lyric,  or  as  the  German  critics  prefer  calling  it,  Melic 
poetry.  "This  was  characterized,"  says  K.  O.  Miiller, 
"by  the  expression  of  deeper  and  more  impassioned 
feeling,  and  a  more  swelling  and  impetuous  tone  than 
the  elegy  or  iambus;  and  at  the  same  time  the  effect 
was  heightened  by  appropriate  vocal  and  instrumental 
music,  and  often  by  the  movements  and  figures  of  the 
dance." 

More  than  any  other  form    of   poetry  among   the 


164  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Greeks  the  lyric  was  intertwined  with  actual  life. 
"Every  town,"  we  are  told,  **had  its  professional 
poets  and  choruses,  just  as  every  church  in  Europe  now 
has  its  organist."  (Sym.  I,  291.)  Of  the  enormous 
mass  of  lyric  poetry  thus  produced  there  remain  only  a 
few  fragments  scattered  here  and  there,  mainly  in  the 
literature  of  Pedants  and  Dry-as-Dusts,  fragments  of 
extinguished  stars,  as  one  calls  them. 

Of  this  lyric,  or  Melic  Poetry,  there  are  two  principal 
schools — the  ^Eolian  and  the  Dorian.  ''The  simple 
song  of  the  ^olic  school  was  sung  by  one  person,  and 
was  never  compHcated  in  structure,  as  it  was  merely 
intended  to  reveal  personal  and  private  emotion ;  the 
choral  melic  poetry  of  the  Greeks  was,  on  the  contrary, 
grand  and  elaborate  ....  devoted  to  state  interests 
and  pubHc  affairs." 

The  center  of  the  ^Eolian  school  was  Lesbos,  **the 
island  of  overmastering  passions,"  passions  which  ere 
long  bore  their  bitter  fruit  in  a  corruption  which  branded 
with  shame  the  very  name  of  their  home.  This  devel- 
opment of  lyric  poetry  in  Lesbos  was  promoted  by  the 
social  and  domestic  life  of  its  people,  the  personal  free- 
dom accorded  to  the  individual,  and  especially  to 
woman.  Nowhere  in  the  ancient  world  did  woman's 
social  position  approximate  so  nearly  her  place  in  mod- 
ern society  as  in  Lesbos.  It  is  not  strange  accordingly, 
that  the  most  distinguished  of  her  poets  is  a  woman,  Sap- 
pho— "the  woman  poet,"  as  Mrs.  Browning  calls  her. 
In  her  verse  the  passion  of  nature  becomes  the  perfec- 
tion of  art.  As  Homer  was  The  Poet  of  the  Greeks,  so 
Sappho  is  The  Poetess.  Plato  calls  her  the  Tenth  Muse. 
Longinus  says  of  one  of  her  Odes  that  it  is  *^  not  a  pas- 
sion, but  a  congress  of  passions."  Solon,  on  hearing 
one  of  her  poems,  prayed  that  he  might  not  see  death 
till  he  had  learned  it.     The  well-known  legend  of  her 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  1 65 

fatal  leap  from  the  Leucadian  cliff  is  now  declared  to  be 
a  myth ;  but  the  sweetness  of  her  poetry  bespeaks  the 
possibility  of  a  despair  sufficient  for  a  thousand  suicides. 
But  little  of  it  remains,  and  criticism  declares  that  liter- 
ature has  suffered  no  greater  loss.  On  the  ethical  side 
it  must  be  confessed  that  her  poetry  suffers  from  serious 
limitations,  which  should  not  indeed  be  exaggerated, 
belonging  as  they  did  largely  to  her  surroundings,  but 
which  can  not  be  overlooked. 

Simply  mentioning  the  name  of  Alcaeus,  the  rival  and 
friend  of  Sappho,  we  may  pause  a  moment  with  Anac- 
reon,  who  belongs  to  the  ^olian  school,  though  not 
himself  an  ^olian.  In  him  we  see  "the  idle  singer  of 
an  empty  day."  We  no  longer  find  the  earnest  passion 
of  the  Lesbian  singers.  He  is  a  courtier  in  verse;  his 
muse  delights  in  trifles  and  tippHng.  His  verse,  it  Is 
true,  is  remarkable  for  its  elegance  and  rich  coloring. 
Horace  is  largely  a  copy  on  the  one  side  of  Alcaeus, 
and  on  the  other  of  Anacreon.  The  Anacreonic  Odes, 
so  called,  with  which  you  are  familiar  through  the  grace- 
ful versions  of  Tom  Moore,  are  (it  should  be  noted)  a 
literary  imposture  of  the  fourth  century. 

So  much  for  the  ^olian  School.  The  other  develop- 
ment of  Lyric  poetry,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  the 
Dorian.  As  the  ^olian  Lyric  was  personal,  the 
Dorian  was  choral.  The  yEolian  singer  told  the  story 
of  his  own  heart,  the  Dorian  chanted  the  praises  of 
some  god,  demi-god,  or  hero.  The  ^olian  accompa- 
nied  his  song  with  the  flute  or  the  lyre,  the  Dorian 
with  a  chorus  of  singers  and  dancers,  among  whom  the 
various  parts  of  the  ode  were  distributed,  epode  answer- 
ing to  epode,  strophe  to  antistrophe,  thus  developing  a 
most  elaborate  and  complex  structure,  suitable  for  the 
most  varied,  graceful,  stately,  eloquent  movements  of 
sentiment,  metre,  voice  and  person.     Madame  de  Stael 


1 66  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

called  architecture  frozen  music.  The  Dorian  Ode  may- 
be called  a  frozen  cathedral.  The  Dorian  habits  of  liv- 
ing were  favorable  to  this  development.  More  than 
any  other  Greeks  they  lived  in  common  and  in  public. 
Their  children  were  educated  in  companies  by  the  State 
and  for  the  State.  They  lived  a  large  civic  and  social 
life.  Their  poetry  accordingly  became  imbued  with  a 
grand  public  spirit,  although  singularly  enough  it  was 
written  mainly  by  strangers  (i.  e.,  non-Dorians)  and 
mostly  for  money. 

The  originator  of  this  Choral  Ode  was  named  Ale- 
man.  It  owed  its  elaboration,  however,  to  Arion,  the 
hero  of  the  well  known  legend  which  tells  of  his  being 
thrown  overboard  like  Jonah,  on  a  voyage  to  Corinth, 
and  being  carried  ashore  by  a  dolphin,  which  had  been 
enamored  of  his  music.  His  most  important  move- 
ment is  the  dithyramb,  a  peculiar  choral  dance  in 
honor  of  Dionysus  (Bacchus).  Other  important  im- 
provements were  introduced  by  Stesichorus,  in  particu- 
lar, the  strophe,  antistrophe  and  epode,  called  the  Triad 
of  Stesichorus. 

There  are  two  names  which  stand  conspicuous  above 
all  others  as  the  masters  of  what  the  Germans  call  the 
*' Universal  Melic."  The  first  of  these  is  Simonides. 
He  was  pre-eminent  for  the  sweetness  and  tenderness 
of  his  poetry.  In  pathos  he  has  never  been  excelled. 
"Sadder  than  the  tears  of  Simonides,"  says  Catullus. 

Still  more  significant  and  brilliant  is  the  name  of 
Pindar,  the  Theban  Eagle.  He  excelled  in  all  the 
known  varieties  of  choral  poetry ;  but  the  Epinikia, 
celebrating  the  victories  of  his  patrons  in  the  sacred 
games  at  Olympia,  or  Pytho,  are  the  poems  on  which 
his  fame  mainly  rests. 

It  may  strike  us  as  remarkable  in  a  Greek  poet  that 
Pindar,  although    writing  in    one  of  the   most  stirring 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  16/ 

periods  of  Greek  history,  shows  no  political,  almost 
one  may  say,  no  patriotic  bias.  Like  Michael  Angelo 
who  kept  on  modeling  and  chiseling  through  the  sack 
of  Rome,  and  Goethe  who  buried  himself  in  his  art 
while  Napoleon  was  thundering  around  Germany,  so 
Pindar  through  the  stormy  days  of  Salamis  and  Platea, 
kept  on  writing  his  magnificent  Odes.  Those  wonder- 
ful compositions  —  who  can  describe?  "He,"  says 
Symonds,  "taught  posterity  what  sort  of  a  thing  an 
ode  should  be.  The  grand  pre-eminence  of  Pindar  as 
an  artist,  was  due  in  a  great  measure  to  his  personality. 
Frigid,  austere,  and  splendid;  not  genial  Hke  that  of 
Simonides,  not  passionate  like  that  of  Sappho,  not  acrid 
like  that  of  Archilochus ;  hard  as  adamant,  rigid  in 
moral  firmness,  glittering  with  the  strong,  keen  light 
of  snow  ;  haughty,  aristocratic,  magnificent ;  the  unique 
personality  of  the  man  Pindar,  so  irresistible  in  its  influ- 
ence, so  hard  to  characterize,  is  felt  in  every  strophe  of  his 
odes.  .  .  .  The  splendor-loving  Pindar  is  his  name  and 
title  for  all  time.  .  .  .  He  who  has  watched  a  sunset, 
a  sunset  attended  by  the  passing  of  a  thunderstorm  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  Alps ;  who  has  seen  the  distant 
ranges  of  the  mountains  alternately  obscured  by  cloud 
and  blazing  with  the  concentrated  brightness  of  the 
sinking  sun,  while  drifting  scuds  of  hail  and  rain,  tawny 
with  sunlight,  glistening  with  broken  rainbows,  clothe 
peak  and  precipice  and  forest  in  the  golden  veil  of 
flame-irradiated  vapors ;  who  has  heard  the  thunder 
bellow  in  the  thwarting  folds  of  hills,  and  watched  the 
lightning  like  a  snake's  tongue  flicker  at  intervals  amid 
gloom  and  glory — knows  in  nature's  language  what 
Pindar  teaches  with  the  voice  of  art.  .  .  ,  Pindar  as  an 
artist  combines  the  strong  flight  of  the  eagle,  the  irre- 
sistible force  of  the  torrent,  the  richness  of  Greek  wine, 


1 68  T.LEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

the  majestic  pageantry  of  nature  in  one  of  her  sublime 
moods." 

Doubtless  this  splendor  of  Pindar  is  open  to  criticism. 
His  grandeur  at  times  becomes  grandiloquence ;  his 
stateliness  has  a  strut ;  his  Titanesque  power  of  expres- 
sion becomes  a  splutter.  It  is,  however,  the  splutter 
of  a  Titan  and  not  of  a  Bombastes. 

Pindar,  it  should  be  noted  further,  still  preaches  the 
Homeric  Faith  of  the  heroic  humanism.  The  heroic 
ideal  he  holds  up  as  a  *^  divinity  that  the  people  should 
worship."  He  is  in  advance  of  Homer,  however,  in 
the  lofty  moral  tone  with  which  he  accomplishes  the 
exaltation  of  his  heroes,  and  the  earnestness  with  which 
he  enforces  the  standard  of  moral  obligation  in  the 
government  of  the  world  and  in  human  conduct.  He 
attributes  the  misery  of  human  life  to  pride,  its  fleeting 
joy  to  the  benevolence  of  the  gods.  *'A  god,"  he 
says,  ''is  in  all  our  joys." 

No  less  important  is  the  advance  in  Pindar's  repre- 
sentations of  the  state  of  man  after  death.  Thus  while 
Homer  describes  his  heroes  as  living  a  shadowy  life  in 
Hades,  pursuing,  though  without  thought  or  under- 
standing, the  same  occupation  as  on  earth,  Pindar  says 
that  all  misdeeds  of  this  world  are  severely  judged  in 
the  infernal  regions,  but  that  a  happy  Hfe  in  eternal 
sunshine,  without  care  for  subsistence,  is  the  portion 
of  the  good;  "  while  those  who  have  kept  their  souls 
pure  from  all  sin  ascend  the  paths  of  Zeus  to  the  citadel 
of  Crowns,  where  the  Islands  of  the  Blest  are  refreshed 
by  the  breezes  of  Ocean,  and  golden  flowers  glitter." 

But  passing  by  other  developments  of  Greek  poetry 
we  come  to  consider,  all  too  briefly,  the  most  interest- 
ing if  not  the  most  important  of  all,  the  Greek  Drama. 

The  Drama  in  its  origin,  like  the  Lyric,  stands  in 
close  connection  with  the  worship  of  Dionysus.      First 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  I 69 

came  the  chorus,  chanting  the  dithyrambic  Ode  in  praise 
of  the  god,  attired  Hke  satyrs  in  goat-skin  to  represent 
the  woodland  comrades  of  Dionysus.  Hence  the  name 
Tragedy,  or  ''goat  song."  This  dithyrambic  ode, 
acquired  partly  from  the  character,  the  life,  the  adven- 
tures of  the  god  celebrated,  and  partly  from  the  enthu- 
siasm which  characterized  his  worship,  a  strongly  dra- 
matic character.  This  led  to  the  addition  to  the  Chorus 
of  an  interlocutor,  *'who  not  only  recited  passages  of 
narrative,  but  also  exchanged  speech  with  the  Chorus, 
and  who  in  course  of  time  came  to  personate  "  Diony- 
sus or  whatever  other  god  or  hero  was  celebrated. 
Then  came  the  improvements  in  the  conduct  of  the 
action  introduced  by  Thespis  (hence  "Thespian,"  as 
an  epithet,)  the  introduction  of  a  second  actor  by  ^s- 
chylus,  and  of  a  third  by  Sophocles.  Comedy  was  in 
like  manner  a  development,  xcofjto^,  or  revelsong,  also  a 
feature  of  the  worship  of  Bacchus. 

It  should  be  noted  also  that  the  Attic  theatre  *'was 
designed"  (to  use  the  language  of  Symonds,)  *'as 
though  its  architects  were  prescient  that  the  Attic  drama 
would  become  the  wonder  of  the  world.  The  specta- 
tors were  seated  on  semi-circular  tiers  scooped  out  of 
the  rock  of  the  Acropolis.  Their  faces  turned  toward 
Hymettus  and  the  sea.  The  stage  fronted  the  Acrop- 
olis ;  the  actors  had  in  view  the  cliffs  upon  which 
stood  the  Parthenon  and  the  gleaming  statue  of  Pro- 
tective Pallas.  The  whole  was  open  to  the  air."  In 
accordance  with  its  size  and  situation,  ''  everything  in 
the  Greek  theatre  had  to  be  colossal,  statuesque,  almost 
statuary.  The  actors  were  raised  on  thick-soled,  high- 
heeled  boots ;  they  wore  masks  and  used  peculiar 
mouth-pieces,  by  means  of  which  their  voices  were 
made  more  resonant.  .  .  .  All  their  movements  par- 
took of  the  dignity  befitting  demi-gods  and  heroes." 


170  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

But  we  cannot  stop  to  consider  further  the  external 
features  of  the  Greek  drama.  More  important  is  its 
interior  sphere  and  significance.  And  here  we  must 
satisfy  ourselves  with  a  few  general  considerations. 

Note  then  first  of  all  that  the  Greek  Drama  became 
the  great  religious  teacher  of  the  people.  The  theater 
was  the  school  in  which  the  philosopher,  the  artist,  the 
politician,  the  orator,  and  the  common  citizen  were 
alike  trained. 

On  the  one  side  it  has  been  appropriately  termed  the 
"consummate  flower  of  Greek  poetry;  the  epic  and  the 
lyric,  the  objective  and  the  subjective  united  in  one 
perfect  blossom  ;  "  on  the  other  hand  it  was  ''the  open- 
ing bud  of  ethical  philosophy  and  theology." 

"The  Greek  stage,"  says  Prof.  Tyler,'*  was  more 
nearly  than  anything  else  the  Greek  pulpit.  With  a 
priesthood  that  sacrificed  but  did  not  preach,  with  few 
books  of  any  kind,  and  no  Bible,  the  people  were  in  a 
great  measure  dependent  on  oral  instruction  for  knowl- 
edge ;  and  as  they  learned  their  rights  and  duties  as 
citizens  from  their  orators,  so  they  hung  on  the  lips  of 
the  lofty,  grave  tragedians  for  instruction  concerning 
their  origin,  duty  and  destiny  as  immortal  beings.  As 
the  Pnyx  was  their  legislative  hall,  and  the  Bema  the 
source  of  their  deliberative  eloquence,  the  eloquence  of 
the  pulpit  proceeded  from  the  stage  and  resounded 
through  the  theater." 

The  Greek  Comedy  had  in  no  small  measure  this  pre- 
ceptive moral  value.  "Comedy,"  says  De  Pressense, 
"is  the  result  of  the  contrast  existing  between  man  as 
he  is  in  reality  and  man  as  he  ought  to  be  and  might 
be.  It  presupposes  his  liberty ;  take  away  his  liberty 
and  there  is  naught  shocking  or  ridiculous  in  avarice 
or  cowardice.  Nobody  mocks  the  hare,  but  we  all 
laugh  at  the  coward," 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  I7I 

The  great  representative  of  Greek  Comedy  is  of 
course  Aristophanes,  a  genuine  poet,  a  briUiant  wit, 
a  master  of  language,  the  audacious  caricaturist,  the 
unsparing  censor  of  folly,  the  unrelenting  foe  of  dema- 
gogues, the  champion  of  the  conservative  party,  and  the 
uncompromising  opponent  of  all  innovations  in  politics, 
philosophy,  poetry,  or  art : — 

"  Who  took 
The  world  with  mirth  and  laughter — struck 
The  hollow  caves  of  Thought  and  woke 
The  infinite  echoes  hid  in  each." 

There  is  much  indeed  in  Aristophanes  with  which  we 
cannot  sympathize.  We  are  revolted  by  his  grossness. 
We  are  pained,  by  his  vulture-like  irreverence  in  the 
treatment  of  what  the  best  of  the  Greeks  must  have 
held  most  sacred.  We  protest  against  his  abuse  of 
Socrates  and  of  his  immortal  (Ppovrtazrjptov  "or  Think- 
ing-shop," notwithstanding  the  oddities  of  the  man  and 
of  his  ways  w^hich  provoke  our  smiles.  Yet  after  all  we 
wonder  at  the  exuberance  of  his  genius  and  power  of 
his  imagination,  the  grace  of  his  fancy,  the  beauty  of 
his  pictures,  the  delicacy  of  his  touch,  and  we  wander 
with  inextinguishable  laughter  through  his  "transcen- 
dental bardlands,"  and  cloudlands  and  frog-ponds.  We 
are  captivated  by  his  studies  of  the  Athenian  life 
[Symonds  says  that  with  Plato  and  Aristophanes  for 
our  guides  we  can  reconstruct  the  life  of  Athens.] 
And  through  all  his  reckless  wit  and  laughter  we  are 
constrained  to  recognize  a  staunch  and  honest  purpose  to 
puncture  the  shams,  absurdities  and  stupidities  of  his 
day,  and  to  aid  the  triumph  of  solid  worth,  honest 
thinking,  and  manly  living. 

But  it  is  in  the  tragedy  of  Greece  that  its  dramatic 
genius  shone  most  conspicuously,  and  poured  forth  its 
loftiest  utterances,  while  discoursing  of  "fate  and  chance 


172  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

and  change  in  human  life."  "Greek  Tragedy,"  says 
Prof.  Tyler,  *'is  essentially  didactic,  ethical,  mytholog- 
ical, and  religious.  It  was  the  express  office  of  the 
Chorus,  which  held  the  most  prominent  place  in  the 
ancient  drama,  to  interpret  the  mysteries  of  Providence, 
to  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men,  to  plead  the  cause 
of  truth,  virtue  and  piety.  Hence  it  was  composed 
usually  of  aged  men,  whose  wisdom  was  fitted  to 
instruct  in  the  true  and  the  right,  or  of  young  women 
whose  virgin  purity  would  instinctively  shrink  from  false- 
hood and  wrong Tragedy  in  its  very  nature  as 

conceived  by  the  Greeks  transported  the  hearer  out  of 
himself  and  away  from  the  present.  It  carried  him 
back  towards  the  origin  of  our  race,  up  nearer  to  the 
providence  and  presence  of  the  gods,  and  on  toward 
the  retribution  of  another  world.  With  few  exceptions 
the  subjects  are  mythological.  The  characters  are 
heroes  and  demi-gods,  monsters  it  may  be  in  crime, 
but  their  punishment  is  equally  prodigious.  Sin  and 
suffering  always  go  together.  They  illustrate  by  their 
lives  and  in  their  lives  the  providential  and  retributive 
justice  of  the  gods." 

^schylus  represents  the  transition  from  the  Epic  and 
Lyric  to  the  Dramatic  Age  of  Poetry.  At  heart  he 
really  belongs  to  the  former.  He  has  been  well  called 
"  the  great  lyrist  of  tragedy."  He  himself  used  to  say 
of  his  tragedies  that  they  were  fragments  of  the  great 
banquet  of  Homer's  table.  He  "is  pre-eminently  the 
theological  poet  of  Greece."  Especially  may  he  be 
called  the  poet  of  Destiny,  the  '*iron  power"  of  which 
filled  his  mind.  "He  was  essentially"  (says  Symonds) 
"the  demiurge  of  ancient  art.  The  purely  creative 
faculty  has  never  been  exhibited  upon  a  greater  scale, 
or  applied  to  material  more  utterly  beyond  the  range  of 
feebler  poets.      He  possessed  in  the  highest  degree  the 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  I 73 

power  of  giving  life  and  form  to  the  vast,  the  incorporeal, 
the  ideal."  **As  befits  a  demiurgic  nature,  ^schylus 
conceived  and  executed  upon  a  tremendous  scale.  His 
outlines  are  huge,  his  figures  colossal ;  his  style  is  broad 
and  sweeping,  like  a  river  in  its  fullness  and  its  might. 
Few  dramatists  have  been  able  like  him  to  wield  the 
chisel  of  a  Titan,  or  to  knead  whole  mountains  into 
statues  corresponding  to  the  stupendous  grandeur  of 
their  thought." 

He  is  the  only  dramatist  who  has  left  us  a  complete 
Trilogy — or  three  connected  dramas,  acted  together  and 
developing  one  great  theme.  These  are  the  Agamem- 
non, the  Choephori  and  the  Eumenides.  It  is  in  this 
Trilogy  that  the  massiveness  and  energy  of  his  genius 
especially  appears.  The  Agamemnon  is  in  the  judg- 
ment of  Prof.  Mahaffy  and  others  the  greatest  of  the 
Greek  tragedies.  The  parallel  between  it  and  Macbeth 
has  often  been  drawn,  and  is  a  most  interesting  study. 
The  Prometheus  Bound  was  doubtless  one  drama  (the 
second  probably)  of  a  Trilogy.  ''No  other  play  of 
^schylus,"  says  Mahaffy,  ''has  produced  a  greater  im- 
pression, and  few  remnants  of  Greek  Literature  are  to 
be  compared  with  it  in  its  eternal  freshness  and  its  eter- 
nal mystery."  Mrs.  Browning  has  given  a  spirited  trans- 
lation of  it. 

But  I  must  hasten  on,  simply  reminding  you  that 
^schylus  was  one  of  the  heroes  of  Marathon,  and  the 
best  actor  of  his  own  plays. 

Sophocles  was  a  typical  Greek  in  body,  mind  and 
character.  It  has  been  said  of  him  that  "he  is  perhaps 
the  only  distinguished  Athenian  who  lived  and  died 
without  a  single  enemy."  (Mahaffy.)  "We  can  not 
but  think  of  him,"  says  Symonds,  "as  especially  cre- 
ated to  represent  Greek  art  in  its  most  refined  and  ex- 
quisitely  balanced   perfection."     He  represents    more 


1^4  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

completely  than  ^schylus  the  Greece  of  the  age  of 
Pericles.  The  humanistic  development  attains  in  him 
its  most  adequate  expression.  His  ethical  creed  is 
summed  up  in  these  two  noble  passages ;  the  one  from 
the  CEdipus  translated  by  Matthew  Arnold : 

"Oh  that  my  lot  may  lead  me  in  the  path  of  holy 
innocence  of  word  and  deed,  the  path  which  august  laws 
ordain,  laws  that  in  the  highest  empyrean  had  their 
birth,  of  which  heaven  is  the  father  alone;  neither  did 
the  race  of  mortal  man  beget  them,  nor  shall  oblivion 
ever  put  them  to  sleep.  The  power  of  God  is  mighty 
in  them,  and  groweth  not  old."  The  other  from  the 
Antigone,  versified  as  follows  by  Mr.  Symonds:  (An- 
tigone is  speaking  of  certain  human  edicts,  relative  to 
the  burial  of  the  dead,  which  she  had  violated.) 

"  It  was  no  Zeus  who  thus  commanded  me, 

Nor  Justice,  dread  mate  of  the  nether  powers — 
Nor  did  I  fondly  dream  their  proclamation 

Were  so  infallible  that  any  mortal 
Might  overleap  the  sure  unwritten  laws 

Of  gods.     These  neither  now  nor  yesterday, 
Nay,  but  from  everlasting  without  end 

Live  on,  and  no  man  knows  whence  they  were  issued." 

Antigone,  the  speaker  of  these  words,  is  probably  the 
finest  female  character  in  the  whole  realm  of  Greek 
poetry.  The  question,  which  of  the  seven  surviving 
plays  of  Sophocles  bears  the  palm,  has  been  much  dis- 
cussed. Almost  every  play  has  its  champions.  The 
majority  of  critics  have  declared  for  the  CEdipus,  al- 
though some  of  the  profoundest  prefer  the  CEdipus 
Coloneus. 

The  last  of  the  three  Greek  Tragedians  is  Euripides. 
He  was  naturally  a  serious  character  with  a  bias  towards 
nice  and  speculative  inquiries  into  the  nature  of  things 


SKETCH  OF  GREEK  POETRY.  1 75 

human  and  divine.  He  is  in  fact  a  philosopher  in  bus- 
kins. That  which  interests  him,  that  which  he  takes 
most  pains  to  elaborate  is  the  psychological  element  in 
his  characters.  There  is  more  of  character-painting  in 
his  dramas  than  in  either  of  his  two  great  predecessors. 
He  is  the  poet  pre-eminently  of  Passion.  His  Medea 
is  grand,  terrible  in  her  passion.  As  we  might  expect 
there  is  more  of  the  sensational  in  his  poetry  than  in 
that  of  his  rivals.  He  deals  more  largely  in  the  spec- 
tacular. In  picturesque  effects  he  is  unrivalled.  He 
concentrates  his  power  on  particular  scenes,  rather  than 
on  the  course  of  the  drama.  His  lyrics  are  superb. 
His  democratic  sympathies,  not  concealed  in  his  poems, 
brought  down  on  him  the  lash  of  Aristophanes.  Some 
one  has  said  that  there  could  be  no  surer  proof  of  his 
real  genius  than  the  failure  of  Aristophanes  to  laugh 
him  down.  Yet  after  all  Euripides  is  the  mouth-piece 
of  the  first  age  of  Athenian  decay. 

Prof.  Tyler  thus  compares  the  three  Tragedians,  and 
with  this  extract  I  close,  ''^schylus,  like  some  an- 
cient prophet,  or  oracle-declaring  priest,  ascended  the 
tripod  and  in  strains  of  awful  sublimity  proclaimed  the 
laws  of  God  and  the  destiny  of  men,  pointed  crimi- 
nals to  the  everlasting  Erinnys  that  were  sure  to 
overtake  them,  and  arraigned  heroes  and  demi-gods 
before  divine  justice.  Euripides  seated  himself  in  the 
chair  of  the  philosopher,  and  interspersing  his  dia- 
logues with  discussions,  reasoned,  refined,  doubted, 
sometimes  almost  scoffed,  and  perpetually  mingled 
the  myths  of  the  ancients  with  the  declamations  of 
the  sophists  and  the  speculations  of  the  schools. 
Sophocles  walked  the  stage  as  if  it  were  emphatically 
his  own,  sang  in  the  orchestra  as  if  music  and  verse 
were  the  language   of  his  birth,   and   represented  the 


176  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

past,  the  present  and  the  future,  the  providence  and 
the  government  of  God,  and  the  character  and  des- 
tiny of  men,  not  distorted  or  discolored,  just  as  they 
were  mirrored  in  the  tranquil  depths  of  his  own  har- 
monious nature." 


VIIL 
ANTHROPOPHAGY.  * 

THE  FUTURE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  RACE  ;  OR 
THE  COMING  CANNIBAL. 

The  anthropophagic  origin  of  the  human  race  will  be 
admitted  at  once  by  the  well  regulated  radical  mind. 
The  first  man  was  beyond  all  reasonable  question  a 
cannibal.  This  to  be  sure  is  a  paradox;  but  all  the  more 
true  for  that,  and  like  every  other  paradox  its  esoteric 
significance  is  luminous  to  the  initiated,  so  that  I  need 
not  dwell  on  it  in  this  enlightened  circle.  And  this 
paradox,  I  need  not  say,  is  true,  whether  the  first  man 
was  one  or  many.  It  is  more  of  a  paradox  perhaps  if 
he  was  one ;  but  it  is  none  the  less  true  if  he  was  many. 
For,  as  will  abundantly  appear  as  we  proceed,  the  an- 
thropophagic instinct  is  one  of  the  primal  instincts  of 
man's  nature ;  primal,  I  say,  and  therefore  congenital, 
universal,  invariable,  inalienable,  indestructible.  It  in- 
hered in  the  first  man  (whether  singular  or  plural)  as 
the  generic  germ  of  every  variety  of  the  genus  homo. 


*  A  number  of  essays  and  poems  '*  in  lighter  vein,"  were  selected 
to  form  a  division  by  themselves  in  this  volume.  On  examination  it 
was  found  that  their  full  enjoyment  depended  so  largely  on  local  allu- 
sions, or  on  the  circumstances  of  their  production  that  it  would  not 
be  best  to  publish  them  all.  This  and  the  following  are  given  simply 
as  specimens. 

(177) 


178  LLEWELYN  lOAN  EVANS. 

From  him  as  seminal  center,  as  primum  mobile  and 
punctum  salic7is,  has  radiated  in  endless  undulation,  in 
anaritJinion  gelasma,  all  that  is  anthropophagous  in 
human  history.  There  was  still  further  an  anterior 
necessity  for  this  characteristic  development.  Modern 
science,  which,  as  Prof.  Tyndall  truly  observes,  is  no 
longer  the  servile  follower  of  pure  reason,  which  is  just 
as  much,  if  not  even  more  the  product  of  imagination, 
has  discovered,  by  lofty  imaginative  processes,  the  great 
law  of  evolution,  in  accordance  with  which  man  may 
be  traced  back  through  simious  and  reptilian  genealo- 
gies to  the  primary  molecule  in  which  existence  had 
its  beginning.  This  genealogical  line  runs,  I  need  not 
say,  through  numberless  strata  of  allelophagous  races. 
The  ichthyosauri,  plesiosauri,  megalosauri  and  ptero- 
dactyli,  after  the  most  approved  fashion,  devoured  one 
another,  or,  at  any  rate,  creatures  but  little,  if  any, 
below  themselves  in  organization.  Their  victims,  in 
accordance  with  the  eternal  law  of  conquest,  were,  we 
may  suppose,  their  inferiors  in  size,  but  probably  in 
very  little  else.  Subjectively  considered,  with  reference 
to  their  controlling  instinct,  and  their  practical  views 
on  the  questions  of  securing  the  means  of  support, 
they  were,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  cannibals.  They 
lacked,  to  be  sure,  the  enlarged  views,  the  enlightened 
processes,  the  enterprising  audacity,  the  artistic  execu- 
tion which  belong  to  the  highest  representative  of  car- 
nivorism  or  cannibalism,  man ;  but  we  must  remember 
that  they  lived  in  a  comparatively  benighted  period. 
They  lived  up  to  the  light  that  was  in  them.  If  their 
cannibalism  was  imperfect,  so  was  everything  at  that 
time.  Indeed,  if  they  had  been  perfect  cannibals,  what 
need  of  man?  Their  attainments  in  this  line  were  but 
**  hints  and  previsions,"  which,  as  Browning  tells  us  : 


ANTHROPOPHAGY.  1 79 

"Are  strewn  confusedly  everywhere  about 
The  inferior  natures,  and  all  lead  up  higher ; 
All  shape  out  dimly  the  superior  race — 
The  heir  of  hopes  too  fair  to  turn  out  false, 
And  man  appears  at  last.     So  far  the  seal 
Is  put  on  life  ;  one  stage  of  being  complete, 
One  scheme  wound  up  ;  and  from  the  grand  result 
A  supplementary  reflux  of  light 
-  Illustrates  all  the  inferior  grades,  explains 
Each  back  step  in  the  circle." 

\_Paracelsus.'] 

Standing  thus  at  the  culminating  point  of  the  series, 
man  inherits  in  their  utmost  perfection  the  carnivorous 
propensities  of  his  entire  ancestral  hneage,  and  in  him 
we  behold  the  ideal  cannibal,  exercising  his  gastro- 
nomic faculty  on  all  forms  of  animal  Hfe,  from  the 
invisible  animalculi  which  swarm  in  his  ice-water,  up 
through  cheese-maggots,  frogs,  Bolognese  dogs,  buffa- 
loes, bears,  up  to  his  own  race.  He  thus  becomes  a 
cannibal  ex  vi  nattircE.  There  is  an  inexorable  necessity 
laid  upon  him  by  that  long  antecedent  chain  of  causa- 
tion. The  forces  which  have  worked  their  way  upward 
through  saurian  and  silurian  developments,  and  of 
which  he  is  the  consummate  product,  make  it  impossi- 
ble for  him  to  be  true  to  his  genesis  and  to  himself, 
without  being  a  cannibal. 

The  positive  indications  of  the  cannibalism  of  the 
first  man  are,  I  regret  to  say,  fewer  than  we  could 
desire.  Perhaps  the  strongest  proof  has  already  been 
given  in  the  necessity  resulting  from  his  genealogical 
antecedents,  from  his  position  as  son  and  heir  of  all 
the  carnivorous  races  of  the  pre-historic  period,  as  well 
as  the  necessity  inherent  in  his  position  as  progenitor 
of  all  succeeding  cannibals.  There  is,  however,  a  little 
more  of  that  *' supplementary  reflux  of  light,"  of 
which    Browning   -speaks,  from    which   we   may   learn 


l80  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

something.  For  example,  a  very  suggestive  inference 
may  be  drawn  from  matrimonial  phenomena.  In  man's 
uxorial  relations  we  find  two  distinct  historical  tenden- 
cies, two  antithetic  ideas  asserting  themselves.  One 
of  these  ideas  is  represented  by  the  term  monogamy, 
the  other  by  the  term  polygamy.  In  contemplating 
the  various  races,  ages,  and  creeds  of  the  globe,  we 
find  some  that  are  monogamous,  others  which  are  polyg- 
amous. This  line  of  division  has  always  existed  ;  the 
philosophic  mind  affirms  that  it  always  will.  But  how 
is  this  to  be  accounted  for  ?  The  origin  of  it  is  lost  in 
the  morning  twilight  of  human  history.  We  are  logic- 
ally constrained,  however,  to  seek  the  angle  from 
which  these  great  lines  of  divergence  proceed  in  the 
first  man.  If,  as  we  can  not  doubt,  he  was  the  germ 
of  all  the  tendencies  and  developments  which  have  sub- 
sequently appeared  in  the  race,  he  must  have  embod- 
ied in  some  way  in  his  own  life  the  contradiction  of 
monogamy  and  polygamy.  The  only  satisfactory  solu- 
tion of  this  contradiction  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  cannibal.  Endowed  at  the  beginning  with  a 
plurality  of  wives,  he  ate  them  all  up  save  one.  Much 
as  it  may  be  regretted  that  he  did  not  also  eat  her,  in- 
scrutable as  his  conduct  may  seem  in  not  eating  her, 
we  must  accept  the  situation.  The  past  is  irrevocable, 
but  the  future  is  ours.  The  first  man,  then,  cannibal- 
ized himself  out  of  polygamy  into  monogamy.  And 
this  hypothesis,  besides  furnishing  the  angle  of  diver- 
gence for  the  great  historical  tendences  already  men- 
tioned, also  furnishes  us  with  one  reason  why  canni- 
balism is  so  important  a  factor  in  the  progress  of  the 
race.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  cannibalism  of  the  first 
man,  the  entire  race  would  have  been  polygamous,  a 
state  the  bare  possibility  of  which  it  is  appalling  to 
contemplate,   and    the  existence  of  which  would  have 


ANTHROPOPHAGY.  1 8  I 

kept  humanity  down  in  a  state  of  permanent  degrada- 
dation.  Monogamy  being  thus  indispensable  to  prog- 
ress, and  cannibalism  to  monogamy,  it  follows  that 
progress  would  have  been  impossible  without  cannibal- 
ism. 

It  would  have  been  exceedingly  interesting,  had  the 
limits  of  the  present  discussion  allowed,  to  present  in 
detail  the  history  of  anthropophagy  in  all  ages  and 
lands  and  under  every  variety  of  manifestation.  We  are 
mainly  concerned,  however,  at  this  time  with  anthro- 
pophagy in  \\\Q  future  development  of  the  race.  In  the 
To-Be  we  find  the  resumption,  under  advanced  condi- 
tions, of  the  Hath- Been.  ''Being,"  says  Goethe,  "is 
ever  a  birth  into  higher  Being."  The  New  is  the  per- 
petual metamorphosis  of  the  Old.  In  advancing  along 
the  spiral  line  of  progress,  we  mount  higher  and  higher, 
it  is  true,  but  the  circumference  of  our  course  lies 
within  the  same  Ideal  Cylinder ;  at  every  new  point  we 
are  recurring  to  the  same  old  position ;  the  line  of  our 
present  movement  is  strictly  parallel  to  the  line  of  a 
former  movement,  except  that  it  is  on  a  higher  (inclined) 
plane,  or  in  the  profound  words  of  the  Koheleth, 
Mahsh-shehayah,  hu  shey-yi-he-yeh,  umashshen-nasah 
hu  shey-ye-a-seh,  veyn  kol  chadhash  tahath  hash  sha- 
mesh,  to  which  may  be  added  the  well  known  majesti- 
cal,  liturgical  formula,  owsper  ien  en  arche  esti  nun  kai 
estai  eis  tojis  aioivnas  town  aiowneon.  Of  nothing  can 
these  words  be  more  truly  said  than  of  anthropophagy. 
So  vitally  incorporated  is  it  with  the  organic  life  of 
humanity  that  nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  it  will 
continue  to  perpetuate  and  reproduce  itself  Cannibal- 
ism having  inwrought  itself  into  the  elemental  structure 
of  the  subjective  consciousness,  and  having  established 
itself  as  a  dominant  force  in  the  objective  phenome- 
nality  of  appetency,  mastication  and  digestive  assimilation, 


1 82  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

can  not  fail  to  assert  itself  as  a  permanent  factor  of 
human  history.  It  may  lie  dormant  here  and  there ;  it 
may  slumber  now  and  then,  for  even  bo7ius  dormitat 
Hoj/icruSj  and  according  to  the  sublime  teachings  of  the 
Vedas,  the  life  of  Brahm  itself  is  an  alternation  of  sleep- 
ing and  waking.  But  when  the  tongue  of  the  centu- 
ries strikes  the  hour  of  destiny  then  will  the  Man-Can- 
nibal awake  out  of  his  sleep,  like  a  giant  refreshed,  and 
then  will  begin  one  of  those  eventful  aeons  which  make 
history. 

For  a  considerable  period  past  it  may  be  said  that 
the  anthropophagic  Brahm  has  been  slumbering — at 
least,  as  regards  some  of  his  functions.  Neither  as  a 
profession,  nor  as  a  fine  art,  nor  as  a  system  of  philos- 
ophy, nor  as  a  problem  of  Malthusian  political  economy, 
nor  as  a  patriarchal  domestic  institution,  can  cannibal- 
ism be  said  to  have  flourished  latterly,  except  in  isolated 
instances  and  in  remote  and  unpopular  localities. 
With  us  it  is  in  a  dormant,  or  perhaps,  I  should 
say,  in  a  transitional  state.  It  is  true  that  a  certain 
modified  imperfect  anthropophagism  has  prevailed  in 
some  highly  civilized  communities.  There  have  been 
those  known  as  landsharks,  vultures,  leeches,  vampires, 
and  the  like,  persons  whose  distinguishing  characteris- 
tic has  been  their  epicurean  fondness  for  certain  choice 
tit-bits  of  their  fellow-men,  such  as  their  reputation, 
their  happiness,  their  virtue,  their  money.  This  partial 
cannibalism  is  indeed  a  most  hopeful  indication  of  the 
future  possibilities  of  humanity  in  this  direction.  For 
as  we  shall  see  immediately,  the  coming  cannibal  will 
distinguish  himself  from  his  naked  and  tattooed  New  Zea- 
land prototype  by  his  success  in  making  a  more  complete 
disposition  of  his  brother  man,  dispatching  not  only  his 
body,  but  also  his  mind  and  estate ;  not  only  his  fat,  but 
also  his  effects  and  affections ;  not  only  what  he  has  in 


ANTHROPOPHAGY.  1 83 

common  with  the  porpoise,  but  his  purposes  and  his 
purse  as  well.  Herein  will  he  vindicate  the  great  law 
of  progress  in  himself.  Our  sleeping  Brahm,  not  alto- 
gether asleep,  seems  even  now  to  dream  in  a  confused 
way  of  this  ideal  perfection  of  cannibalism,  as  appears 
from  that  significant  and  melodious  sonnet  of  our  great 
poet  laureate: 

"If  I  were  a  cassowary, 

On  the  shores  of  Timbuctoo, 
I  would  eat  a  missionary, 
Flesh  and  bones  and  hymn  book  too." 

Observe  that  masterly  stroke,  not  only  of  rhyme,  but 
also  of  reason,  with  which  the  stanza  concludes — ^^  and 
hymn  hook  too  " — indicating  that  as  a  cannibal  our  poet 
would  make  thorough  work  of  his  brother,  the  mission- 
ary, and  of  all  his  effects  and  appurtenances.  But  the 
great  and  fatal  defect  of  our  modern  civilized  anthro- 
pophagism,  is  that  it  limits  itself,  so  to  speak,  to  the 
hymn  book,  lacking  either  the  taste  or  the  courage,  or 
both,  to  eat  up  the  flesh  and  bones  of  its  subjects.  It 
is  the  sublime  mission  of  radicalism  to  introduce  the 
complete  cannibalism  of  the  future,  by  serving  up  the 
entire  man  in  all  that  he  is,  and  in  all  that  he  has,  as  a 
dainty  dish  to  set  before  a  king. 

You  have  all  read  Charles  Lamb's  charming  essay 
on  Roast  Pig.  To  the  superficial  reader  it  is  probably 
nothing  more  than  an  exquisite  extravaganza  of  literary 
sybaritism,  the  Puck-like  reveling  of  wit  and  genius  in 
the  aromatic  lusciousness  and  ravishing  deliciousness  of 
what  is  indeed  one  of  the  most  royal  dishes  before 
which  an  epicure  can  sit.  To  the  philosophic  mind, 
however,  it  is  above  and  beyond  all  this  a  parable  of 
profound  significance.  You  find  in  it  doubtless,  as  I 
do,   a  subtle  suggestion  of  a  banquet  worthy  of  Plato 


184  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

and  his  friends,  a  truly  Olympian  symposium.  It  can 
not  be  doubted  that  the  roast  pig  of  which  the  gentle 
Elia  discourses  here  so  dehghtfully,  is  emblematic  of  a 
human  being  prepared  by  the  most  approved  culinary 
processes  for  alimentary  uses.  Can  we  doubt  this  when 
we  remember  that  his  own  name  was  Lamb,  and  that 
the  analogy  between  roast  pig  and  roast  lamb  is  almost 
perfect  ?  Does  not  probability  become  certainty,  when 
we  read  in  Sir  John  Lubbock's  Prehistoric  times  (p. 
449)  that  among  the  Feegeans  '*  human  flesh  is  known 
as  ^ ptiaka  balava,'  or  'long  pig?'"  Only  thus,  more- 
over, do  we  obtain  a  satisfactory  clue  to  that  entertain- 
ing Oriental  fiction  with  which  Lamb  introduces  his  de- 
scription. I  refer,  of  course,  to  his  account  of  the  dis- 
covery of  the  first  roast  pig  among  the  ruins  of  a  burnt 
house,  and  the  Chinese  custom,  thence  derived,  of  burn- 
ing down  a  house  whenever  this  dainty  is  to  be  pro- 
duced. Literally  understood,  this  is  but  a  piece  of  de- 
lightful absurdity,  of  clever  humorous  extravagance. 
But,  philosophically  understood,  it  has  a  world  of  sug- 
gestions in  it,  pointing  as  it  does  most  unmistakably  to 
the  proper  culinary  process  by  which  the  coming  canni- 
bal's chef  d'oeuvre  de  cuisirie  is  to  be  produced.  In  a 
word,  beneath  the  mystic  symbol  of  a  pig  roasted  whole 
in  a  burned  down  house,  the  philosophic  Elia  teaches 
us  that  in  order  properly  to  cook  a  human  being  he 
must  be  roasted  or  baked  whole  in  a  composite  bon- 
fire or  furnace  constituted  of  his  house,  library,  clothes, 
correspondence,  papers,  and  everything  belonging  to 
him,  all  his  properties  and  accidents,  relations  and  cor- 
relations, collaterals  and  contemporalities.  A  holocaust 
must  be  made  of  him  and  his.  The  coming  cannibal 
will  be  satisfied  with  nothing  less. 

But  let  us  pause  for  a.  moment  here  to  enforce  the 
necessity   of  making  the   physical    man  a  part  of  the 


ANTHROPOPHAGY.  1 85 

holocaust.  The  error  of  the  South  Sea  Island  cannibal 
is  that  he  has  restricted  himself  too  exclusively  to  the 
corporeal  element  in  his  dietetics ;  the  error  of  the  civ- 
ilized Caucasian  is  that  he  has  totally  abstained  from 
the  corporeal  element.  The  savage  cannibal  is  satisfied 
with  the  flesh  of  his  human  roast  or  fricassee ;  the  civ- 
ilized cannibal  devours  all  but  the  flesh.  The  former 
type  of  cannibalism  is  too  gross  and  earthy  ;  the  latter  is 
too  refined  and  volatile.  The  king  of  the  Cannibal  Isl- 
ands, like  Tony  Weller  with  his  alleybye,  thinks  there 
is  nothing  like  habeas  corpus  \  the  Sachem  of  Tammany, 
or  the  Prince  of  the  Power  of  Aery,  applies  to  every- 
thing the  process  known  as  abstraction. 

These  two  types  of  cannibalism  must  be  combined, 
married  together  into  one  higher  type,  forming  in  the 
coming  cannibal,  like  Tennyson's  Man  and  Woman, 

The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
The  two-celled  heart  beating  with  one  full  stroke, 
The  two-celled  stomach,  filled  with  one  square  meal, 
A  Man! 

''The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man,"  says  a  poet, 
whose  very  name  is  the  guaranty  of  his  infallibility. 
A  fortiori  WLd^y  it  be  said,  ''the  proper  diet  of  mankind 
is  man;  "  man,  I  say,  considered  as  an  integer,  one  and 
indivisible.  It  was  all  very  well  for  our  unscientific 
ancestors  to  make  a  distinction  between  the  corporeal 
and  the  incorporeal  in  man,  and  to  make  their  diet  of 
the  one  or  the  other,  as  fancy  or  taste  might  incline. 
It  is  all  very  well  for  our  cousin,  the  King  of  Dahomey, 
to  eat  up  his  missionaries,  and  to  think,  after  swallow- 
ing all  save  their  boots  and  buttons,  that  he  has  dis- 
posed of  all  there  was  of  them,  for  he  is  ignorant  of 
the  existence  and  value  of  ideas.  It  was  all  very  well 
for  Dr.  Watts  to  say,  "The  mind's  the  measure  of  the 


1 86  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

man,"  for  Dr.  Holmes  had  not  taught  him  that  mind 
and  body  are  one  and  the  same  machine  ;  and  further- 
more, as  Sydney  Smith  ^aid  of  another,  he  had  scarcely 
body  enough  to  cover  his  soul;  his  intellect  was  improp- 
erly exposed.  But  we  nineteenth  century  radicals,  who 
liave  condescended  to  favor  a  benighted  world  with  the 
discovery  of  protoplasm,  nous  avons  change  tout  cela. 
It  behooves  us  to  rise  above  the  partial  views  alike  of 
an  untutored  barbarism,  and  of  an  imperfect  civilization, 
and  to  advance  intelligently  and  courageously  to  the 
higher  synthesis  which  includes  both.  The  doctrine  of 
protoplasm  furnishes  us  with  one  "physical  basis  of 
life"  for  the  entire  man.  Huxley's  exposition  of  it  is 
famihar  to  us  all.  This  profound  radical  discovery 
renders  obsolescent  the  old  notions  of  an  essential  dis- 
tinction between  the  material  and  immaterial  constitu- 
ents of  human  nature.  Matter  and  spirit  are  practically 
at  least  resolved  into  one  original  force. 

Those  who  talk  of  mind  and  matter, 
Just  a  senseless  jargon  patter. 
What  are  we,  or  you,  or  he  ? 
Dissolving  views,  not  mind  or  matter. 

Even  admitting  a  theoretical  or  ideal  distinction 
between  matter  and  mind,  their  concrete  synthesis  in 
the  individual  man  results  in  a  single  entity.  Each  man 
is  an  eris  individuum,  possessing  one,  and  that  a  physical 
basis  of  life.  Now  hear  what  Mr.  Huxley  says  of  the 
appropriation  of  his  physical  basis,  or  protoplasm,  as  he 
calls  it.  "Mutton,"  he  says,  "was  once  the  living 
protoplasm  of  a  sheep.  As  I  shall  eat  it,  it  is  the 
same  matter,  altered  not  only  by  death,  but  by  expo- 
sure to  sundry  artificial  operations  in  the  process  of 
cooking.  But  these  changes,  whatever  be  their  extent, 
have  not  rendered  it  incompetent  to  resume  its  old  func- 


ANTHROPOPHAGY.  18/ 

tions  as  a  matter  of  life.  A  singular  inward  laboratory 
which  I  possess  will  dissolve  a  certain  portion  of  the 
modified  protoplasm.  The  solution  so  formed  will  pass 
into  my  veins,  and  the  subtle  influences  to  which  it  will 
then  be  subjected  will  convert  the  dead  protoplasm  into 
living  protoplasm,  and  transubstantiate  sheep  into  man." 
Here  is  the  principle,  but  how  shall  we  reach  its  highest 
application?  Obviously  by  substituting  for  the  sheep 
the  highest  organic  form  in  which  protoplasm  is  found. 
Here  e.  g.  is  Mr.  Huxley.  I  wish  to  possess  myself  of 
his  vis  vivida  vitce,  to  have  his  protoplastic  force  trans- 
fused through  my  system.  How  shall  it  be  done?  I 
read  his  writings,  his  essay  on  the  Physical  Basis  of  Life, 
his  lay  sermons,  and  the  rest ;  but  how  little  of  the  true 
Mr.  Huxley  do  I  get  into  me  by  this?  But  I  obtain 
Mr.  Huxley's  consent  to  figure  on  my  bill  of  fare;  I 
constitute  him  my  principal  dish ;  I  provide  for  myself 
and  family  a  few  courses  of  Huxley,  Huxley  soup, 
roast  Huxley,  corned  Huxley,  Y{.\yx\&y  ragout  a  la  mode^ 
cold  Huxley,  Huxley  pie,  Huxley  hash;  and  what  is 
the  result?  Why,  a  singular,  inward  laboratory  which 
I  possess  will  dissolve  a  certain  portion  of  the  modified 
Huxley-protoplasm ;  the  solution  so  formed  will  pass 
into  my  veins,  and  the  subtle  influences  to  which  it  will 
then  be  subjected  will  convert  the  dead  protoplasm  into 
living  protoplasm,  and  transubstantiate  Huxley  into 
Jones.  And  when  it  becomes  my  turn  to  be  served  up 
in  the  same  way,  then  Huxley  in  me  passes  into  others, 
and  so  on  ad  infinitum,  and  so,  as  Ariel  sings, 

"  Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea  change, 
Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

What  is  true  of  Mr.  Huxley  could  be  true  of  all 
great  men.  By  eating  them  we  would  assimilate,  as 
we  could  in  no  other  way,  their  thought,  genius,  wit, 


1 88  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

imagination,  knowledge,  heroism,  all  in  them  that  is 
worth  appropriating.  A  dim  apprehension  of  this  ex- 
alted function  of  anthropophagy  seems  to  have  dawned 
even  on  the  savage  mind.  **  The  cannibalism  of  the 
New  Zealander,"  says  Sir  John  Lubbock,  "though 
often  a  mere  meal,  was  also  sometimes  a  ceremony  ;  in 
these  cases  the  object  was  something  very  different 
from  mere  sensual  gratification ;  it  must  be  regarded  as 
a  part  of  his  rehgion,  as  a  sort  of  unholy  sacrament. 
This  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  after  a  battle  the  bodies 
which  they  preferred  were  not  those  of  plump  young 
men  or  tender  damsels,  but  of  the  most  celebrated 
chiefs,  however  old  and  dry  they  might  be."  In  fact, 
they  believed  that  it  was  not  only  the  material  sub- 
stance which  they  thus  appropriated,  but  also  the  spirit, 
the  ability  and  glory  of  him  whom  they  had  devoured. 
The  greater  the  number  of  corpses  they  had  eaten, 
the  higher  they  thought  would  be  their  position  in  the 
world  to  come.  "  Under  such  a  creed,"  adds  Sir  John, 
"  there  is  a  certain  diabolical  nobility  about  the  habit, 
which  is  at  any  rate  far  removed  from  the  groveling 
sensuality  of  a  Fejee."  (Prehistoric  Times,  p.  457-) 
But  why  diabolical  ?  Who  ever  heard  of  cannibaHsm 
among  the  devils  ?  But  how  singeth  the  great  Poet  of 
Transcendentalism  ? 

"  The  Past  in  me  doth  live  again  : 

In  me  each  great  and  thoughtful  brain 

Hath  left  some  legacy  behind  ; 

Of  each  some  living  trace  I  find: 

Of  Plato's  soul  I  find  a  part, 

Of  Homer's  muse,  of  Sappho's  heart." 

But  how  much  more  true  would  this  be  were  such 
as  Plato,  Homer  and  Sappho,  Caesar,  Alfred  and 
Shakespeare,  to  undergo  that  assimilation  and  trans- 
fusion which  is   the   result  of  a  thorough   process   of 


ANTHROPOPHAGY.  I 89 

digestion?  Precisely  herein  is  it  that  anthropophagy 
is  to  play  so  important  a  part  in  the  future  develop- 
ment of  the  race.  By  means  of  it,  the  protoplastic 
essence  of  all  true  greatness  will  communicate  and  dif- 
fuse itself  through  the  entire  organism  of  humanity. 
The  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul  will  become 
literal  facts  of  human  development.  Humanity  will 
dietize  itself  into  greatness.  Platonic  philosophies  will 
disseminate  themselves  through  the  alimentary  canal. 
The  genius  of  the  future  Shakespeare  will  mingle  with 
the  gastric  juice.  Progress  will  be  a  secretion  of  the 
digestive  apparatus.  The  cabalistic  motto  of  our  uni- 
versities, the  abracadabra  of  culture  will  be,  *'  Fee,  fi, 
fo,  fum !  "  The  coming  cannibal,  whether  he  smells  the 
blood  of  an  Enghshman,  or  of  any  other  man,  will  be 
recognized  as  the  ultimate  metamorphosis  of  the  uni- 
versal protoplasm,  of  which  every  sage  and  hero  is  the 
more  perfect  exponent.  Thus  it  is  that  protoplasm 
begins  by  revolutionizing  our  philosophy,  next  revolu- 
tionizes our  cuisine,  and  achieves  its  final  apotheosis  in 
the  grand  Vou-dou,  or  Man-Eater  of  the  future. 

How  simple,  and  at  the  same  time  how  beautiful  the 
answer  thus  furnished  to  the  all-absorbing  questions  of 
life  and  destiny !  Here  we  have  the  process  by  which 
the  human  organism  is  to  be  refined,  elevated,  enriched 
with  all  the  constituents  needful  for  its  most  perfect 
nutriment. 

All  nature  widens  upward  evermore  : 
The  simpler  essence  lower  lies, 
More  complex  is  more  perfect. 

Man,  as  the  most  complex  and  refined  organism,  de- 
mands the  most  complex  and  refined  alimentation. 
The  lowest  forms  of  organic  life  in  the  vegetable  king- 
dom find  their  alimentation  in  inorganic  matter.  The 
paw-paw    bush   is'  nourished  by  the   soil ;  the   animal 


IgO  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

kingdom,  possessed  of  a  higher  organization,  finds  its 
ahmentation  in  some  form  of  organic  matter.  The 
lamb  eats  grass.  The  noble  horse  eats  and  feels  his 
oats.  The  dog,  man's  fidiis  Achates,  has  an  organism 
equal  to  the  proper  appreciation  of  a  bone.  The  lion, 
king  of  the  forest,  the  eagle,  monarch  of  the  air,  de- 
mand for  food  matter  in  its  highest  organic  form  of 
fibrine  and  gelatine.  Lamb  and  roast  pig,  symbol,  as 
we  have  seen,  of  a  still  higher  roast,  puts  all  nature 
under  tribute,  eats  and  assimilates  everything.  Man, 
the  crown  of  organic  life,  must  seek  and  find  his  ali- 
mentation in  the  plane  of  his  own  organization.  He 
can  be  satisfied  with  nothing  below  the  highest  form  of 
organic  matter,  the  highest  development  possible  of 
fibrine  and  gelatine,  that  which  is  produced  by  that 
"singular  inward  laboratory"  of  which  Mr.  Huxley 
is  so  justly  proud,  that  which  is  distilled  out  of  this 
wonderful  alembic  of  his  own  vital  apparatus.  When 
this  principle  comes  to  be  universally  recognized  and 
applied,  may  we  not  expect  to  see  a  development  of 
humanity,  an  advance  in  refinement,  ethereality,  and 
purity  of  organization  which  must  be  seen  to  be  be- 
lieved in  ? 

There  is  one  application  of  our  subject  which  should 
not  be  passed  by,  although  I  can  do  no  more  than  hint 
at  it  here.  I  refer  to  anthropophagy  as  a  development 
of  love.  In  that  mysterious  complexity  of  phenomena 
to  which  the  name  love  is  given,  there  is  nothing  which 
the  philosophic  observer  contemplates  with  greater  in- 
terest than  the  uncontrollable  propensity  which  those 
who  are  under  the  influence  of  the  tender  passion  evince 
to  eat  one  another  up.  In  one  form  or  another,  this 
propensity  finds  continual  expression.  The  language 
of  love  is  full  of  it.  The  poetry  of  love  derives  very 
much  of  its  tenderness   from  it.      For  the   most    part 


ANTHROPOPHAGY.  1 9 1 

suggested,  it  is  sometimes  explicitly  avowed.  It  is 
quaintly  assumed  in  the  following  instructive  little 
legend,  from  the  Siamese,  translated  by  a  fair  friend, 
from  whose  manuscript  I  am  kindly  permitted  to  copy 
it: 

A  youth  was  once  joined  to  the  girl  he  loved  best, 
But  before  a  year  sped  to  his  friends  thus  confest : 
For  a  very  short  time  of  my  new  married  Hfe, 
My  love  was  so  great,  I  'most  ate  up  my  wife, 
And — ah  me  !  I've  been  sorry  I  didn't  since  then  ; 
For  alas  !  I  am  now  the  most  wretched  of  men. 

The  frequent  tributes  which  lovers  make  to  one  an- 
other's sweetness  are  to  be  explained  on  the  same  prin- 
ciple. 

The  rose  is  red,  the  violet's  blue, 
Sugar  is  sweet,  and  so  are  you. 

Thus  does  St.  Valentine  sing,  and  his  song  echoes 
itself  from  year  to  year  through  all  generations.  The 
instinct  of  absolute  possession,  so  strong  in  love,  points 
in  the  same  general  direction.  Its  great  soul-agonizing 
question  is,  Wilt  thou  be  mine  ?  Its  sweet,  soul-en- 
trancing confession  is,  I  am  thine.  It  would  possess 
its  object  wholly,  solely,  and  absolutely,  individually, 
undividedly,  and  eternally.  You  would  appropriate, 
assimilate,  make  part  of  yourself,  the  object  of  your 
love.  And  how  can  this  be  perfectly  done  except  by 
eating  the  object?  Kissing  is  a  still  more  significant 
indication.  Through  leaving  out  its  anthropophagic 
origin  philosophers  have  utterly  failed  in  their  explana- 
tions of  this  singular  phenomenon.  Nothing,  indeed, 
could  well  be  more  absurd  than  the  application  of  one 
person's  lips  to  the  face  or  hands  of  another  accom- 
panied by  a  noise  resembling  a  small  explosion,  if  that 
were  the  whole  of  it.  Why  the  lips?  Why  not  the 
nose,  accompanied,  say,  by  a  delicate,  finely  modulated 


192 


LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 


sneeze  ?  The  latter  demonstration,  as  all  will  admit, 
would  be  just  as  convenient,  no  less  graceful,  and  far 
more  useful  than  the  former.  But  eating  is  done  not 
with  the  nose,  but  with  the  mouth,  and  the  law  of 
kissing  /a//ozvs  tJie  law  of  eating.  The  whole  philosophy 
of  osculation  lies  in  the  anthropophagic  quality  of  the 
tender  passion.  Cupid  in  a  word  is  a  cannibal,  and 
kissing  can  be  understood  only  as  a  modified  process 
of  manducation,  a  suppressed  bite.  It  is  the  anticipa- 
tion in  typical  form  of  the  New  Evangel,  of  which  the 
coming  cannibal  is  to  be  the  apostle.  The  bearing  of 
this  on  some  of  the  great  social  questions  of  the  day, 
such  as  divorce,  Mormonism,  early  marriages,  old 
bachelorism  and  the  hke,  I  leave  to  your  reflection. 


IX. 

APOLOGIA  PRO  VITA  SUA; 

OR    A  WORD    FOR    LOAFERS — BY  ONE   OF   THEM. 

In  the  department  of  criticism,  this  Age  is  perhaps 
Hable  to  the  reproach  of  being  the  Age  of  Whitewash. 
So  many  characters  which  the  eyes,  or  at  least  the  im- 
agination, of  our  forefathers  painted  black,  now  look  so 
much  like  a  board  fence  newly  touched  by  the  hand  of 
Spring,  or  like  Roman  candidates  for  office,  as  to  sug- 
gest that  criticism,  historical  criticism  especially,  has 
come  to  be  an  Art  of  Whitewashing  in  all  colors.  The 
Nero  who  fiddled  while  Rome  v/as  burninp-  has  become 
transformed  into  an  amiable  amateur  violinist,  whose  ir- 
repressible enthusiasm  for  art  made  him  at  times  a  lit- 
tle absent-minded.  Catiline,  the  wretch  who  so  outra- 
geously abused  the  patience  of  the  Roman  Senate,  and 
against  whom  in  undergraduate  days  we  thundered  our 
Ciceronian  wrath,  is  painted  as  the  able,  patriotic,  highly 
misunderstood  prototype  of  Mazzini  or  Garibaldi. 
Henry  Vlll,  Frederic  the  Great,  the  Duke  of  Alva, 
and  other  interesting  **  monsters"  of  a  morbid  and  un- 
philosophical  past,  have  been  made  to  look  as  white  as 
the  sepulchres  of  assassinated  prophets.  Some  fine 
touches  have  been  put  on  Judas  Iscariot;  we  are  be- 
ginning to   ask   whether  Cain   was  not  afflicted   with 

(193) 


194  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

"moral  insanity;"  and  one  is  almost  tempted  to  say 
that  there  is  hope  even  for  General  Butler. 

It  is  not  my  present  purpose  to  justify,  nor  yet  to 
condemn  this  particular  tendency  or  our  age.  It  may 
possibly  indicate  a  deeper  love  of  truth,  a  sincerer  de- 
sire for  justice,  a  wider  knowledge  of  fact,  than  obtained 
under  the  old,  critical  regime.  Or  it  may  be  the  sym- 
tom  of  a  looser  ethical  code,  of  a  more  reckless  disre- 
gard of  verity,  of  a  stronger  fancy  for  sensational  effect. 
There  is  one  advantage,  however,  connected  with  it.  It 
shows  that  conventional  opinions,  and  the  prejudices 
which  are  rooted  in  them,  have  a  less  tenacious  hold 
on  men's  minds  than  of  old.  It  is  easier  to  obtain  a 
hearing  in  behalf  of  a  persecuted  being,  or  a  maligned 
class,  than  it  used  to  be.  We  are  more  ready  to  hear 
Themistocles,  however  it  may  be  about  striking  him. 
And  so  I  feel  encouraged  to  say  a  word  or  two  in  be- 
half of  my  brethren  the  Loafers. 

What's  in  a  name  ?  Much  every  way.  I  am  sure 
that  the  Loafer  has  suffered  from  his  name.  Not  that 
it  lacks  altogether  in  euphony,  for  it  begins  and  ends 
with  a  liquid,  and  its  principal  vowel  is  round  and  mu- 
sical. But  the  Average  Man  is  an  indifferent  etymolo- 
gist ;  and  I  am  persuaded  that  nineteen  out  of  twenty 
of  those  whose  noses  curl  upward  at  the  mention  of  the 
name  Loafer,  are  secretly  persuaded  that  it  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  thrill  with  inward 
horror  at  the  thought  that  the  First  Loafer  got  his  name 
from  stealing  a  loaf,  or  begging  for  one,  or  being  a  dis- 
ciple of  loaves  and  fishes.  In  point  of  fact,  however, 
bread  is  no  more  a  staff  of  life  to  the  Loafer  than  to 
anybody  else ;  and  there  is  no  reason  whatever  in  his 
pedigree  why  he  should  not  face  a  loaf  of  bread  as 
boldly  as  any  one  of  his  detractors  might  look  a  sheep 
in  the  face.     Loafer  is  laitfcr,  or  lofer,  from  laufen,  or 


APOLOGIA    PRO    VITA    SUA.  1 95 

lofen,  to  run,  and  means  properly  runner,  racer,  courier, 
post,  either  of  whicli  definitions  suggests  for  the  Loafer 
a  respectable,  if  not  an  honorable  parentage.  Not  im- 
possibly it  was  first  applied  to  the  swift  footed  Achilles, 
in  which  case  the  world  owes  to  him  its  Iliad.  At  all 
events  it  should  not  be  forgotten  that  a  Loafer  was  the 
hero,  the  inspiration,  the  fmal  cause  of  the  greatest  of 
all  the  world's  Epics ;  as  perchance  the  father  of  the 
family  was  a  noted  runner  in  the  Olympian  games, 
whose  laurel  crown  made  him  at  once  the  pride  and  the 
envy  of  assembled  Greece.  And  as  the  racer  among 
horses  is  the  purest  representative  of  the  thoroughbred, 
it  is  not  too  much  to  assume  that  the  First  Loafer  was 
the  most  thoroughbred  man  of  his  time.  Or,  perad- 
venture,  he  was  a  swift  messenger,  a  bearer  of  news,  a 
human  Mercury,  the  precursor  of  the  Able  Editor  of 
to-day — a  supposition,  let  me  add,  which  is  favored  by 
the  fact  that  Mercury,  the  runner  or  loafer  of  the  gods, 
was  their  advertising  agent  and  their  commercial  re- 
porter. Or  not  improbably  he  was  the  post,  the  letter- 
carrier  of  his  day,  the  first  attempt  made  in  the  world 
of  running,  or  loafing,  a  Post  Office.  The  Loafer  ac- 
cordingly has,  as  you  see,  a  very  fine  choice  of  pedi- 
grees, and  whichever  paternity  he  adopts,  whether  the 
hero  of  the  Iliad,  or  the  first  thoroughbred  man,  or  the 
first  newspaper,  or  the  first  Post  Office  Department,  it 
must  be  admitted  that  he  has  a  species  of  origin  which 
Darwin  himself  might  envy. 

These  remarks  are  intended  simply  to  relieve  the 
origin  of  the  Loafer  from  unworthy  suspicion,  and  are 
descriptive  only  of  the  First  of  the  species.  It  does  not 
follow  that  the  Loafer  of  to-day  is  literally  a  runner, 
any  more  than  that  the  Baker  of  to-day  knows  any- 
thing about  making  a  loaf.  If  the  Loafer  had  kept  on 
running  allthe  Way  "down  the  corridor  of  time,"  his 


196  LLEWELYN    lOAN   EVANS. 

fate  would  doubtless  ere  this  have  reminded  us  of  the 
famous  Mynheer  von  Hamm,  with  his  cork  leg,  and  I 
should  be  now  reading  his  L.  E.  G.  But  it  is  an  impor- 
tant point  in  his  favor  that  the  vulgar  prejudice  against 
him  as  being  descended  from  some  one  who  once  upon 
a  time  was  involved  in  some  questionable  transaction 
touching  a  loaf,  can  be  shown  to  have  no  foundation 
whatever,  and  we  are  now  prepared  to  consider  what 
further  may  be  said  in  his  behalf. 

Disregarding  the  Dictionary,  which  on  this  point,  as 
on  others,  is  simply  the  organ  of  popular  prejudice,  let 
me  begin  by  defining  the  Loafer  to  be  the  man  of 
infinite  leisure,  who  refuses  to  recognize  the  conventional 
code  of  activity  prescribed  by  an  antiquated  system, 
established  not  only  before  he  was  born,  but  what  is  far 
more,  without  his  consent;  who,  moreover,  having 
strong  absorbent  qualities,  appropriates  to  himself  what- 
ever he  finds  suitable  to  his  need  or  comfort,  of  which 
he  becomes  the  vehicle,  conveying  it  with  himself  as  a 
part  of  himself  and  thus  becoming  a  disseminator  of  the 
more  subtle  and  intangible  elements  of  social  existence, 
his  social  circulation  being  determined  by  no  material  or 
economical  laws,  but  by  an  inward  spontaneity  and  in 
obedience  to  undefinable  attractions,  wandering  like 
Wordsworth's  river,  ' '  at  his  own  sweet  will. "  This  same 
spontaneity  making  him  a  most  important  solvent  of  the 
more  rigid,  mechanical  elements  of  society  through 
the  infusion  into  our  civilization  of  that  freedom,  ease, 
abandon,  grace,  which  it  so  greatly  needs.  This  defi- 
nition is,  I  admit,  somewhat  long  and  lingering — but  so, 
to  be  candid,  is  the  Loafer. 

In  calling  the  Loafer  a  man  of  infinite  leisure,  I  do 
not  mean  to  insinuate  that  he  never  issues  a  business 
card,  never  advertises  in  the  papers,  never  frequents  at 
mysterious  seasons  a  mythical  locality  which  he  meta- 


APOLOGIA    PRO    VITA    SUA.  igy 

phorically  calls  his  "office."  He  has  the  good  fortune 
however,  to  be  practically  independent  of  the  drudgery 
and  tyranny  of  what  the  common  run  of  men  call  "busi- 
ness." He  is  too  considerate  of  his  nose  to  keep  it  for 
any  length  of  time  down  to  the  grindstone.  On  the  con- 
trary he  keeps  it  well  up  in  the  air.  He  looks  like  one 
who  is  consciously  monarch  of  all  he  surveys,  and  what 
he  surveys  is  evidently  no  pent-up  Utica.  He  com- 
mands his  timiC.  The  seasons  are  his  own.  He  is  never 
in  a  hurry,  however  much  others  might  wish  that  he 
were.  There  is  something  approaching  the  sublime 
about  the  glacier-like  repose  which  he  maintains  amid 
the  rushing  avalanches  about  him.  His  calm  inertia  is 
an  invaluable  phenomenon  in  this  world  of  whirl  and 
worry,  froth  and  fret,  push  and  passion.  As  Mrs.  Stowe 
says  of  the  Yankee  variety:  "  Every  New  England  vil- 
lage, if  you  think  of  it,  must  have  its  do-nothing  as 
regularly  as  its  school-house  or  meeting-house.  Work, 
thrift,  industry,  are  such  an  incessant  steam-power  in  Yan- 
kee life,  that  society  would  burn  itself  out  with  intense 
friction,  were  there  not  interposed  here  and  there  the 
lubricating  power  of  a  decided  do-nothing,  a  man  who 
won't  be  hurried,  and  won't  work,  and  will  take  his 
ease  in  his  own  way,  in  spite  of  the  protest  of  his 
whole  neighborhood  to  the  contrary." 

The  Loafer  is  thus  your  grand  social  sedative.  The 
very  sight  of  him  is,  or  ought  to  be,  sufficient  to  call  the 
bulls  and  bears  of  the  gold-room  into  the  repose  of  the 
cradle.  His  whole  life  is  an  echo  of  Earl  Russell's 
famous  motto:  "Rest,  and  be  thankful!"  No  matter 
what  is  to  be  done — be  it  to  declare  war,  to  elect  a 
President,  to  resume  specie  payment,  to  reform  the  civil 
service,  to  put  down  the  Athanasian  creed,  to  annihilate 
the  nebular  hypothesis — it  is  all  one — he  loafs  and  still 
he  is  happy.      Wise  man !     Tell  the  sluggard  to  go  to 


198  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

the  ant — but  tell  the  rest  of  the  world  to  go  to  the 
Loafer,  and  to  believe  that,  in  more  senses  than  one,  half 
a  loaf  is  better  than  none,  and  very  often  is  just  as  good 
as  a  whole  loaf. 

The-Dictionary  calls  the  Loafer  a  "sponge."  This  is 
a  feeble  attempt  at  satire;  in  fact,  it  is  a  compliment. 
The  Loafer  has,  I  repeat,  strong  absorbent  faculties, 
and  to  be  a  sponge  is  one  of  his  rarest  and  most  beau- 
tiful uses.  He  takes  into  himself  much  that  is  floating 
and  flowing  in  the  air  and  sea  of  life  about  him,  which 
would  otherwise  be  lost.  The  men  in  active  life  are  all 
the  time  throwing  off  a  vast  amount  of  electric  energy 
which  if  left  loose  would  run  riot,  or  return  back  whence 
it  came  and  where  there  is  too  much  of  it  already. 
This  passes  over  into  the  Loafers,  by  whom  it  is 
absorbed,  and  in  whom  it  remains  latent  until  it  is 
wanted.  When  the  time  comes  for  them  to  discharge, 
then  look  out  for  live  thunder ! 

Not  only  that,  but  they  carry  off  considerable  else 
which  needs  to  be  disposed  of.  The  Loafer  is  the  waste- 
pipe  of  the  social  machine.  A  sponge  is  he?  Well,  he 
sponges  up  a  vast  deal  of  other  people's  nonsense  for  one 
thing,  which  they  are  well  rid  of,  and  which  doesn't  seem 
to  hurt  him.  And  yet  we  squeeze  him  and  blame  him  for 
the  nonsense  that  comes  out  of  him.  Men  say  much  to 
the  Loafer  which  it  is  well  they  should  get  off  their 
minds,  but  which  they  would  hardly  care  to  say  to  any- 
body else.  A  business  man  does  not  care  to  show  his 
weak  side  to  another  business  man,  but  to  the  first 
Loafer  that  comes  along,  ten  to  one  he'll  show  it.  And 
this  is  one  way  it  comes  to  pass  that  he  knows  so  much 
about  everybody.  And  then  he  is  so  good-natured  he 
disarms  everybody^  he  draws  out  everybody,  takes  in 
everybody,  he  is  the  same  to  everybody,  he  takes  an 
interest  in  everybody,   and   he   takes   everything  from 


APOLOGIA    PRO    VITA    SUA. 


199 


everybody.  Others  vent  their  humors  of  all  sorts  on 
him  ;  these  drop  serenely  on  him  hke  rain-drops  on  a 
duck's  back ;  the  duck  is  happy,  the  sky  gets  clear  and 
the  world  wags  on. 

As  one  happy  result  of  this  power  of  absorption,  he 
is  to  some  extent,  at  least,  a  valuable  social  disinfect- 
ant. Noxious  gases,  absorbed  by  him,  pass  over  into 
an  insensible  state,  and  so  become,  for  the  time  being, 
at  least,  harmless.  In  revolutionary  times,  to  be  sure, 
he  becomes  for  this  reason,  a  dangerous  element,  but  so 
are  all  magazines  liable  to  explosion.  They  are  neces- 
sary nevertheless.  And  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  if  the 
agitator,  the  anarchist,  the  agrarian,  the  petroleanist,  the 
communist,  is  often  the  metamorphosis  of  the  Loafer, 
just  as  often  the  Man  for  the  Crisis  is  the  Loafer,  too. 
**  Beware  of  that  young  trifler!"  said  the  Dictator  Sulla 
of  Julius  Caesar.  The  greatest  empire  which  the  world 
has  yet  seen  was  founded  by  a  Loafer.  Rienzi  was  a 
Loafer  and  a  buffoon  until  his  hour  came.  In  our  own 
civil  war,  which  the  Loafer  had  much  to  do  doubtless  in 
bringing  on,  who,  nevertheless,  was  more  successful 
than  he  in  putting  an  end  to  it? 

One  chief  value  of  the  Loafer  resides  in  the  free 
spontaneity  of  his  movements.  Like  Wordsworth's  river, 
he  "  wanders  at  his  own  sweet  will."  Other  men  move 
in  grooves  and  beaten  paths.  Business  necessarily 
means  routine,  and  routine  means  ruts.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  Loafer,  life  would  be  one  dull  routine. 
The  world  would  run  on  a  straight  T  rail  instead 
of  swinging  gracefully  and  majestically  in  its  ever  ad- 
vancing spiral  curves.  He  breaks  up  its  dead  uniform- 
ities and  angularities  and  monotonies.  His  path  is  the 
waving  line  of  beauty.  Because  he  lives  in  it,  the  world 
no  longer  looks  like  a  gridiron.  He  makes  its  lines 
picturesque.      And   by   his   freedom   of  movement   he 


200  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

distributes  abroad  the  social  elements  and  forces  of 
which  he  is  the  reservoir.  He  is  thus  useful  as  well  as 
ornamental.  He  is  like  the  cloud,  which  instead  of 
moving  in  uniform  lines  drifts  in  every  direction  and 
thus  bears  its  sweet  influences  wherever  they  are  wanted. 
Roaming  where  he  will,  he  carries  and  deposits  the  pol- 
len necessary  for  the  fertilization  of  human  orchids. 

This  element  of  grace  in  the  Loafer  belongs  not  sim- 
ply to  his  movements,  but  to  the  man  himself  The 
man  of  routine  can  not  help  being  angular  and  stiff 
His  mechanical  life  makes  a  machine  of  him.  He  is  a 
pair  of  tongs,  a  pump-handle,  a  walking  wax  figure. 
The  Loafer  on  the  contrary,  being  free  from  this  mech- 
anism, strapped  up  in  no  strait-jacket,  displays  the  free- 
dom and  ease  of  nature  in  every  line.  There  is  a  care- 
less misstudied  grace  about  him  which  is  quite  refresh- 
ing in  a  world  of  cast-iron.  He  is  a  natural  professor 
of  Deportment,  a  poet  laureate  of  the  Picturesque;  if 
not  the  glass  of  fashion,  he  is  the  mould  of  form.  The 
Italian  lazzarone,  for  instance,  what  an  embodiment  of 
grace !  The  models  from  whom  our  artists  get  their 
Apollos  and  Adonises,  who  are  they?  Loafers  to  a 
man ! 

There  are  other  noble  uses  of  the  Loafer  which  I  can 
only  mention.  Besides  being  a  thing  of  beauty,  he  is 
a  joy  forever.  In  a  world  of  worry  his  life  is  a  carol. 
He  is  a  living  piece  of  sunshine.  He  relieves  the  world 
of  its  lonesomeness.  How  many  spots  now  haunted 
by  his  Genial  Presence,  would  be  bleak  and  solitary  as 
Juan  Fernandez,  if  he  should  become  extinct.  How 
many  sharp  corners  of  which  he  is  the  tutelary  divinity, 
would  become  positively  dangerous  !  How  many  rough 
angles  would  our  knee-pans  strike  against  which  are 
now  rounded  smooth  and  harmless  by  the  friction  of 
his  benevolent  back !     How  many  hours  in  Hfe  would 


APOLOGIA    PRO    VITA   SUA.  20I 

be  vacant  blanks  if  he  were  not  thrown  in,  Hke  whisky 
at  a  wake !  How  many  lectures,  operas,  plays,  or  even 
sermons  would  present  a  beggarly  account  of  empty 
boxes,  or  pews,  if  he  should  retire  from  the  world, 
and  take  his  place  among  the  fossils !  How  many  im- 
portant transactions  would  be  born  to  blush  unseen,  if 
he  did  not  always  happen  to  be  around  in  the  very 
nick  of  time.  How  dreary  and  barren  would  the  His- 
tory of  the  Witness-box  be  but  for  his  timely  contribu- 
tions !  What  has  ever  taken  place  in  the  world  worth 
seeing  or  hearing  which  the  Loafer  was  not  there  to 
see  or  hear?  What  would  have  become  of  the  Daily 
Press,  that  mighty  engine  of  progress,  but  for  him  with 
his  valuable  nose  for  news?  And  that  palladium  of 
our  liberties,  that  bulwark  of  justice,  that  climax  of 
civilization,  the  Jury-box,  where,  oh  !  where  would  that 
have  been,  had  the  evolution  of  the  heterogeneous  out 
of  the  homogeneous  never  produced  the  Loafer ! 

Again,  how  many  of  the  most  valuable  inventions, 
especially  in  the  economics  of  life,  have  originated  with 
the  Loafer?  Noah  Webster  sneers  at  him  as  one 
who  seeks  his  living  by  expedients.  Truly,  and  why 
not  ?  What  is  life  at  the  best  but  a  series  of  shifts 
and  expedients,  dodging  nature's  constables,  paying  off 
your  old  debts  with  new  promises  to  pay,  learning  by 
one  scrape  how  to  get  out  of  the  next,  making  the 
best  out  of  a  bad  bargain,  keeping  up  appearances, 
making  a  part  equal  to  the  whole,  and  all  that  ?  The 
loafer  honestly  accepts  the  situation,  and  beats  you  at 
the  same,'  that  is  all. 

My  present  limits  will  not  allow  me  to  dwell  on  the 
varieties  of  the  genus,  interesting  as  many  of  them  are  ; 
such  as  the  Loafer  Genteel,  the  Loafer  Out-at-Elbow, 
the  Hotel  Loafer,  the  Church  Loafer,  the  Police  Court 
Loafer,    the  Loafer  of  the  Corner,   the   Loafer   of  the 


202  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Pit,  the  Loafer  of  the  Lobby,  the  MoonHght  Loafer, 
the  Sea-Side  Loafer,  the  Loafer  in  PoHtics,  the  PhiHs- 
tine  Loafer,  the  Dilettante  Loafer,  the  Country-Store 
Loafer,  the  Book  -  Store  Loafer,  the  Philosophical 
Loafer,  and  many  more  too  numerous  to  mention. 

I  regret  also  being  unable  to  do  justice  to  many  of 
the  Loafer's  most  remarkable  accomplishments,  espe- 
cially his  mastery  of  the  jack-knife.  What  the  sword  is 
to  the  hero,  what  the  pen  is  to  the  author,  that  the 
knife  is  to  the  Loafer.  It  may  be  true  that  the  pen  is 
mightier  than  the  sword,  but  I  have  no  hesitation  in 
saying,  that  the  jack-knife  is  mightier  than  either,  and 
the  Loafer  is  pre-eminently  the  Hero  of  the  jack-knife. 
Who  can  doubt  that  the  steam-engine,  the  cotton-gin, 
the  ocean  frigate,  the  organ,  and  all  the  inventive  tri- 
umphs of  civilization,  owe  their  rudimentary  begin- 
nings and  their  completed  development  to  the  jack- 
knife?  How  much  we  owe  to  this  most  modest,  and 
yet  most  mighty  of  all  weapons,  let  the  Patent  Office 
tell.  The  world  whittles  its  way  to  the  Millennium. 
That  Good  Time  Coming  would  be  nowhere  without 
the  jack-knife,  and  the  jack  -  knife,  I  need  not  say, 
would  be  a  failure  without  the  Loafer.  Walt  Whitman 
says,  that  the  forte  of  Americans  is  confessedly  loaf- 
ing and  writing  poems.  Judging  by  Walt's  poetry  we 
might  doubt  our  poetic  calling,  but  judging  by  our 
whittling  and  inventions,  we  may  say  that  loafing  is  our 
forte. 

I  cannot  close  without  one  word  of  deprecation.  I 
protest  against  holding  the  Loafer  responsible  for  all 
that  is  objectionable  in  every  member  of  the  class.  For 
instance,  because  now  and  then  a  Loafer  is  a  Bore,  it 
is  egregiously  unfair  to  regard  every  Loafer  as  a  Bore. 
I  venture  to  say  that  some  of  the  most  delightful  fel- 
lows who  have  ever  lived  were  Loafers,  as,  to  mention 


APOLOGIA    PRO    VITA    SUA.  203 

no  Other  one  except  William  Shakespeare.  So  again, 
because  loafers  are  sometimes  ne'er-do-wells,  it  is  unjust 
to  charge  all  with  being  such.  Sam  Lawson,  to  be 
sure,  was  a  do-nothing  as  well  as  a  Loafer — but  as  a 
Loafer  his  career  was  brilliant  and  sans  reproche.  Mr. 
Micawber's  creditors  had  a  serious  time  of  it,  I  admit, 
but  Wilkins  Micawber  is  one  of  earth's  immortals  never- 
theless. What  we  condemn  in  these  men  is  accidental, 
what  we  admire  belongs  essentially  to  them  as  Loafers. 
But  if  you  would  know  what  a  Loafer  can  be,  let  me 
point  you  to  Old  Socrates,  the  Ideal  Loafer  of  the 
centuries,  who,  lounging  around  Athens,  barefooted 
and  shirtless  (as  we  should  say),  wearing  the  same  old 
coat  summer  and  winter,  dropping  in  here  and  there 
and  everywhere,  dropped  questions,  and  hints,  and 
syllogisms,  and  parables,  which  may  be  almost  said  to 
have  created  philosophy,  as  it  won  for  him  the  fame  of 
the  one  martyrdom  which  the  world  will  remember  out- 
side of  the  Christian  Church.  The  next  time  you  see 
a  Loafer,  remember  Socrates,  and  take  off  your  hat. 


JOHN   MILTON,  THE  PATRIOT. 

"A  GRATEFUL  recollection  of  the  Divine  Goodness  is 
the  first  of  human  obligations ;  and  extraordinary  favors 
demand  more  solemn  and  devout  acknowledgments: 
with  such  acknowledgments  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  begin 
this  work.  First,  because  I  was  born  at  a  time  when 
the  virtue  of  my  fellow-citizens,  far  exceeding  that  of 
their  progenitors  in  greatness  of  soul,  and  vigor  of  enter- 
prise, having  invoked  heaven  to  witness  the  justice  of 
their  cause,  and  been  clearly  governed  by  its  directions, 
has  succeeded  in  delivering  the  commonwealth  from 
most  grievous  tyranny,  and  religion  from  the  most 
ignominious  degradation." 

So  begins  the  famous  "  Defensio  Secunda  pro  Populo 
Anglicano, "  written   by   one  whose  Prose   has  proved 
him  no  less  worthy  to  vindicate  the  People  of  England, 
than  his  Poetry  to  undertake  the  vindication  of  the  ways* 
of  God  to  man. 

Believing  that  we  also  have  the  same  cause  of  grati- 
tude, that  we  also  live  in  a  time,  when  the  virtue  of 
our  fellow-citizens,  if  it  does  not  far  exceed  that  of 
their  progenitors  in  greatness  of  soul  and  vigor  of  enter- 
prise, does  not  fall  far  short  of  it,  when  the  great  con- 
test of  the  Seventeenth  Century  is  under  new  conditions 
(204) 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  205 

waged  over  again,  when  the  essential  principles,  advo- 
cated and  established  by  the  pen  of  him  whose  tongue 
dictated  Paradise  Lost,  are  again  struggling  for  the 
mastery,  when  Puritan  Demoracy  again  invokes  heaven 
to  witness  the  justice  of  its  cause,  as  against  a  perfidious, 
arrogant,  jure  divino  tyranny,  I  invite  you  to  spend  a 
brief  hour  in  communing  with  the  spirit  of  the  great, 
good,  and  wise  man,  whose  words  you  have  just 
Hstened  to,  the  Advocate  of  Freedom,  the  Defender  of 
the  Commonwealth  of  England,  Joh^sT  Milton,  the 
Patriot. 

The  Patriot  to-day,  rather  than  the  Poet:  although 
in  Milton,  more  than  in  any  other,  more  even  than  in 
Dante,  Patriot  and  Poet  are  inseparable.  While  his 
poetry  is  absolutely  free  from  every  vestige  of  political 
passion  or  prejudice,  such  as  glares  in  Dante's  Inferno, 
it  is  controlled  throughout  by  those  clearly  defined  and 
firmly  held  principles  of  Government,  Justice,  Law, 
Liberty,  which  guided  his  conduct  as  a  citizen.  In 
every  book  of  Paradise  Lost,  we  feel  the  pulsations  of 
that  mighty  revolution,  wherein  he  bore  so  prominent  a 
part.  Still  more  vividly  do  we  discern  in  his  enthu- 
siasm for  all  that  was  chivalrous,  in  his  homage  to  all 
that  was  heroic,  in  his  magnificent  rage  against  tyranny, 
in  his  burning  pleas  for  Truth,  Right  and  Liberty,  the 
true  God-sent  Poet,  the  Vates  of  olden  time,  his  lips 
touched  with  fire  from  off  the  altar  of  heaven,  his  heart 
kindUng  with  the  ardors  of  Eternity.  Goethe  has  said, 
that  the  poet  must  hold  himself  aloof  from  the  polemics 
of  his  generation.  The  remark  is  unquestionably  true, 
when  these  polemics  are  nothing  more  than  the  personal 
strife  of  factions,  the  conflict  of  partisan  prejudices,  the 
antagonism  of  ephemeral  issues,  whose  interest  is  tran- 
sient, whose  results  are  perishable.  But  when  the 
controversies  of  an  age  are  the  life-or-death  struggles  of 


206  LLEWELYN    lOAM    EVANS. 

Principles  of  world-wide  interest  and  timelong  results, 
when,  as  to  Milton's  poet-vision,  the  angels  and  the 
demons  marshal  their  hosts  for  strife,  then  no  true  Poet, 
no  devout  worshipper  of  the  Beautiful,  to  whom  the 
goddess  reveals  herself  not  less  in  the  gleaming  flash  of 
Truth's  sword,  and  in  the  waving  plumes  of  warring 
Duty,  than  in  the  glittering  spears  of  the  dawn  or  the 
swaying  crest  of  the  forest-pines,  can  hold  himself  aloof 
Whether  here  or  there,  whether  on  the  red  field,  where 
''principles  are  rained  in  blood,"  or  in  the  senate-hall 
and  council  chamber,  where  wise  and  brave  measures 
are  matured,  or  on  the  forum,  whence  winged  words 
may  take  their  flight  to  enlighten,  to  arouse,  to  calm, 
to  strengthen,  or  yet  in  the  meditative  retreat,  where 
his  low-toned  lyre  sounds  the  keynote  of  the  clashing 
and  crashing  discords  of  the  storm,  somewhere  he  will 
be  found  aiding  and  hastening  the  victorious  result. 
But  whatever  his  words,  and  with  whatsoever  weapon  it 
is  done,  the  poet's  chaplet  ever  crowns  his  head,  the 
prophetic  fire  ever  burns  in  his  heart.  He,  with  whom 
we  are  now  about  to  commune,  will  stand  before  us  A 
Poet,  confessed  and  undisguisable.  You  will  see  the 
light  of  Apollo's  kiss  on  his  brow,  even  when  it  is  knit 
in  beautiful  wrath  against  the  wrong.  His  words  will 
drip  with  the  honey-dews  of  Helicon,  while  they  come 
to  us  winged  with  the  wisdom  of  the  sage.  The  poet 
will  make  himself  known,  while  I  seek  to  show  you 
The  Citizen,  The  Man. 

In  a  season  of  National  Trial,  like  that  in  the  midst 
of  which  To-day  finds  us,  it  is  well  that  we  should  give 
heed  to  the  Voices  of  the  Past,  especially  to  those 
which  come  to  us  out  of  those  stirring,  heroic  times, 
when  humanity  was  agitated  to  its  depths,  when  men's 
intuitions  of  truth  and  duty  were  quickened  into  al- 
most supernatural  clearness  and  power,  when  the  world 


JOHN    MILTON,   THE   PATRIOT,  20/ 

throbbed  with  the  pulsations  of  a  grander  Hfe,  and  when 
marvelous  and  blessed  Results  sprang  Minerva-like,  full- 
grown  and  full-armed  out  of  the  spiritual  throes  of  the 
Age.  I  desire,  therefore,  on  this  occasion,  to  let  Mil- 
ton himself  be  heard,  to  be  the  simple  mouth-piece  of 
his  wisdom.  Much  as  we  may  know,  wise  as  no  doubt 
we  are,  I  think  that  there  are  yet  a  few  things  which 
this  Patriot  of  the  olden  time  can  teach  us. 

To  the  end,  however,  that  we  may  understand  his 
words,  it  will  be  necessary  for  us  to  glance  at  a  few  of 
the  more  prominent  facts  of  his  life  and  times,  such  in 
particular  as  are  related  to  his  public  career  and  patri- 
otic utterances. 

John  Milton  was  born  in  the  heart  of  the  city  of 
London,  on  the  9th  of  December,  1608.  His  father, 
also  named  John  Milton,  was  a  scrivener,  or  writer  of 
legal  documents.  The  poet  was  of  a  stern  and  sturdy 
stock,  for  we  are  told  that  John  Milton,  the  elder,  on 
becoming  a  convert  to  Protestanism,  was  disinherited 
by  his  father,  who  was  a  substantial  farmer  of  Oxford- 
shire. The  sternness  of  the  old  Romanist,  or  bigotry 
as  our  age  would  call  it,  casting  off  his  own  son  for 
embracing  what  he  conceived  to  be  an  error,  and  the 
inflexible  conscientiousness  of  the  son,  submitting  to 
the  loss  of  his  patrimony,  rather  than  betray  his  con- 
victions, are  noteworthy  antecedents  of  the  resolute 
character  of  their  descendant.  By  his  diligence  and 
prudence,  however,  Milton's  father  had  acquired  an  in- 
dependent livelihood,  and  become  able  to  make  suit- 
able provision  for  the  education  and  comfort  of  his 
family.  He  himself  was  a  man  of  liberal  taste  and  va- 
ried accomplishments.  His  grandson  Philip,  Milton's 
nephew,  says  of  him:  "  He  did  not  so  far  quit  his  gen- 
erous and  ingenious  inclinations,  as  to  make  himself 
wholly  a  slave  tp  the  world ;"  a  trait  of  character  which 


208  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

some,  whom  we  know,  would  do  well  to  imitate.  He 
was  an  especial  admirer  of  music,  owned  a  parlor  organ, 
bass-viol  and  other  musical  instruments,  and  brought  up 
his  family  in  the  love  and  exercise  of  that  Divine  Art. 
With  a  natural  talent  for  music,  aided  by  such  an  edu- 
cation, his  son  John  became  a  passionate  lover  of  the 
art,  and  an  earnest  advocate  of  its  cultivation.  Thus  in 
his  Tractate  of  Education  he  recommends,  with  a 
manifest  recollection  of  his  own  early  home  education, 
that  the  intervals  of  rest,  which  occur  in  the  education 
of  young  men,  "be  taken  up  in  recreating  and  com- 
posing their  travailed  spirits  with  the  solemn  and  di- 
vine harmonies  of  music,  heard  or  learned ;  .  •  .  which 
if  wise  men  and  prophets  be  not  extremely  out,  have 
a  great  power  over  dispositions  and  manners,  to 
smooth  and  make  them  gentle  from  rustic  hardships 
and  distempered  passions." 

But  better  than  all  other  charms,  which  rested  on 
the  London  scrivener's  home,  were  the  high  moral  and 
religious  influences  which  prevailed  there.  It  was  in- 
deed a  genuine  Puritan  home,  not  sombre,  gloomy, 
forbidding,  as  the  common  idea  would  make  it,  but 
grave,  serious,  quiet,  yet  withal  cheerful  and  cozy, 
abounding  in  innocent  delights,  intelligent  conversation, 
pleasant  recreations,  useful  occupations,  lofty  Christian 
meditations  and  pursuits.  Milton's  mother  also  deserves 
particular  mention  (as  the  mother  of  what  great  man 
does  not?)  for  he  speaks  of  her  as  "a  most  excellent 
mother,  and  particularly  known  for  her  charities  in  the 
neighborhood."  With  grateful  and  noble  pride  does 
Milton  in  after  life  refer  to  the  home  of  his  youth,  and 
to  the  pure  and  Christian  training  which  he  there  re- 
ceived. 

We  have  a  portrait  of  Milton  taken  at  the  age 'of 
ten  by  Cornelius  Jansen,  a  young  Dutch  painter  of  that 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  2O9 

day,  regarded  as  second  only  to  Vandyck,  and  which  is 
no  doubt  an  exceedingly  truthful  likeness.  You  have 
probably  seen  in  shop-windows  and  elsewhere,  what 
purports  to  be  a  portrait  of  Milton  in  his  boyhood,  in 
which  he  is  represented  as  a  young  cherub,  or  rather  a 
young  something  between  a  cherub  and  a  seraph,  with 
a  celestial  cast  of  countenance  with  features  of  the  most 
orthodox  classical  mould,  with  long  golden  ringlets 
clustering  around  his  shoulders,  the  whole  gotten  up 
after  the  most  approved  style  of  the  seraphic-cherubi- 
fication  of  boys.  Why  people  will  persist  in  painting 
angels  as  nice  boys,  or  nice  boys  as  angels,  is,  I  confess, 
to  me  a  mystery.  If  you  have  seen  such  an  angelifica- 
tion  of  the  young  Milton,  let  me  beseech  you  to  dis- 
miss it  from  your  memory  at  once.  It  is  no  more  like 
Milton  than  it  is  Hke  a  real  angel.  Jansen's  portrait  is 
that  of  a  charming  little  English  boy,  in  a  black-braided 
tightly-fitting  coat,  with  a  wide  lace  frill  around  the 
neck,  of  a  delicate  red  and  white  complexion,  light 
auburn  hair  cropped  close,  disclosing  a  massive,  prac- 
tical cast  of  head,  a  grave  countenance,  the  predomi- 
nant expression  of  which  is  a  mild,  loving,  and  lovable 
earnestness,  less  removed,  one  would  think,  from  tears 
than  smiles,  although  when  it  changes  into  smiles,  one 
sees  they  must  be  of  rare  winningness.  Altogether  it 
is  the  picture  of  a  "sweet  little  Roundhead,"  differing 
from  an  angel's  in  this,  that  you  do  not  tire  of  it ;  but 
the  more  you  look  at  it,  the  more  you  like  it. 

This  serious  little  Roundhead,  who,  as  his  father 
played  the  organ  at  evening,  would  stand  by  his  side, 
lost  in  rapture,  and  as  soon  almost  as  he  could  reach 
the  keyboard,  learned  to  play  himself,  who  if  he  did 
not,  Hke  Pope,  "lisp  in  numbers,"  did  certainly  scrib- 
ble boyish  rhymes,  and  was  in  consequence  installed 
poet-laureate  of  the  family,  was  according  to  his  own 


210  LLEWELYN   lOAN   EVANS. 

account  "destined  by  his  parents  and  friends  from 
childhood  to  the  service  of  the  Church."  It  was  re- 
solved accordingly  to  give  him  a  liberal  education.  He 
gives  himself  the  following  account  of  his  early  youth 
and  studies.  **  I  was  born  at  London,  of  an  honest 
family.  My  father  was  distinguished  by  the  undeviat- 
ing  integrity  of  his  life,  my  mother  by  the  esteem  in 
which  she  was  held,  and  the  alms  which  she  bestowed. 
My  father  destined  me  while  yet  a  boy  for  the  study 
of  humane  letters,  which  I  seized  with  such  eagerness, 
that  from  the  twelfth  year  of  my  age  I  scarcely  ever 
went  from  my  lessons  to  bed  before  midnight ;  which 
indeed  was  the  first  cause  of  injury  to  my  eyes,  to 
whose  natural  weakness  there  were  also  added  frequent 
headaches.  All  which  not  retarding  my  impetuosity 
in  learning,  he  caused  me  to  be  daily  instructed  both 
at  grammar  school  and  under  other  masters  at  home  ; 
and  then  when  I  had  acquired  various  tongues,  and 
also  some  not  insignificant  taste  for  the  sweetness  of 
philosophy,  he  sent  me  to  Cambridge,  one  of  our  two 
national  universities."  The  only  teacher  of  Milton  of 
whom  we  have  any  account  was  Thomas  Young,  a 
Scotch  Puritan,  "  who  cut  his  hair  short."  The  gram- 
mar school  of  which  Milton  speaks,  was  St.  Paul's 
School,  taught  at  this  time  by  Dr.  Gill,  who  was  as- 
sisted by  his  son,  Alexander  Gill,  and  who  is  described 
as  "  a  very  ingenious  person,  who  notwithstanding  had 
his  moods  and  humors,  as  particularly  his  whipping 
fits,"  which  Milton  had  occasion  to  remember. 

Milton  entered  Cambridge  in  the  year  1625,  when  he 
was  a  little  over  sixteen  years  of  age.  There  he  pur- 
sued his  studies  with  indefatigable  assiduity  for  seven 
years.  Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  life  of  Milton,  has  given 
publicity  to  a  silly  and  ungrounded  rumor  that 
Milton  was    one    of    the    last    students   in    either  uni- 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  2ll 

versity  that  suffered  the  public  indignity  of  corporal 
correction.  The  rough  old  Tory's  prejudice  against 
the  Republican  champion  has  led  him  too  easily  in  this 
as  in  other  matters,  to  fear  something  to  be  true  which 
was  not.  The  only  circumstance  which  can  give  color 
to  the  tradition  is,  that  a  quarrel  between  Milton  and 
his  tutor,  which  may  have  amounted  to  a  personal  scuffle, 
and  in  which  possibly  Milton  not  being  a  Heenan,  came 
off  second  best,  led  to  a  brief  rustication  of  the  young 
man  at  his  father's  home,  the  **  oiimn  cum  di^nitate''  of 
which  ' '  exile  ' '  (as  he  calls  it)  he  seems  to  have  appreciated 
and  enjoyed  not  less  than  others  after  him  have  done. 

It  is  indeed  quite  possible  that  he  was  not  as  great  a 
favorite  with  the  College  authorities  as  he  might  have 
made  himself  by  greater  ductility  and  tractability,  by 
showing  less  independence  and  less  disdain  for  the  time- 
sanctioned  routine  of  University  discipline.  He  might 
also  have  acquired  greater  popularity  among  his  fellow- 
coUegiates  had  he  exhibited  less  of  that  proud  and  sen- 
sitive reserve,  less  of  that  womanly  delicacy  of  soul 
which  shrank  from  the  coarseness,  the  boisterousness 
and  recklessness  of  university  life.  There  is,  however, 
sufficient  evidence  to  show  that  by  his  attainments,  his 
culture,  and  the  purity  and  nobleness  of  his  character, 
he  compelled  the  admiration  of  his  instructors,  secured 
the  esteem  of  his  fellows  and  won  the  passionate  idoli- 
zation of  his  friends. 

We  have  another  portrait  of  Milton  while  a  student 
at  Cambridge,  in  which  he  appears  to  us  as  a  fresh,  fair 
complexioned,  frank  looking  English  youth,  of  slender 
but  graceful  form,  with  oval  face,  dark  gray  eye,  long 
light  brown  hair  falling  to  his  ruff,  with  the  same  gen- 
tle seriousness  brooding  over  the  face,  which  is,  how- 
ever, now  lighted  up  by  the  pride  of  conscious  power 
and  the  cheerfulness  of  resolution  and  hope.     * '  His  de- 


212  LLEWELYN  lOAN  EVANS. 

portment  at  this  time,"  says  one,  "was  affable,  his  gait 
erect  and  manly,  bespeaking  courage  and  undaunted- 
ness. "  He  tells  us  himself  that  he  practiced  daily  with 
his  sword,  and  that  "armed  with  it,  as  he  generally 
was,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  thinking  himself  quite  a 
match  for  any  one,  even  were  he  much  more  robust, 
and  of  being  perfectly  at  ease  as  to  any  injury  that  any 
one  could  offer  him,  man  to  man."  Notwithstanding, 
so  fair  and  delicate  was  he  in  appearance  and  so  serious 
and  pure  in  manners,  that  he  was  known  as  "The 
Lady  of  Christ's  College."  In  one  of  his  College  Ora- 
tions we  find  him  alluding  to  the  matter  thus:  "  Why 
seem  I  then  too  little  of  a  man  ?  ...  Is  it  because  I 
never  was  able  to  quaff  huge  tankards  lustily?  or  be- 
cause my  hands  never  grew  hard  by  holding  the  plough, 
or  because  I  never,  like  a  seven  years'  herdsman,  laid  my- 
self down  and  snored  at  midday  ;  in  fine,  perchance,  be- 
cause I  never  proved  my  manhood  in  the  same  way  as  these 
debauched  blackguards  ?  I  would  they  could  as  easily 
doff  the  ass,  as  I  can  whatever  of  the  woman  is  in  me." 
And  here  is  the  place  perhaps  to  make  a  remark  which 
is  indispensable  to  a  correct  view  of  Milton's  life  and 
character ;  to-wit,  that  having  in  very  early  youth 
formed  the  conviction  that  "by  labor  and  intense 
study,  which,"  he  says,  "I  take  to  be  my  portion  in 
this  life,  joined  with  the  strong  propensity  of  nature,  I 
might  perhaps  leave  something  so  written  to  aftertimes, 
as  they  should  not  willingly  let  it  die,"  he  seems  to 
have  realized  almost  as  early  that  in  order  to  accomplish 
this  end  he  must  develop  in  himself  a  perfect  and  he- 
roic character.  "Long  it  was  not  after,"  he  tells  us, 
''when  I  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion,  that  he  who 
would  not  be  frustrated  of  his  hope  to  write  well  here- 
after in  laudable  things,  ought  himself  to  be  a  true 
poeiUy  that  is,  a  composition  and  pattern  of  the  best  and 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  213 

honorablest  things."  Noble  words!  He  who  would  write 
a  poem  must  be  a  true  poem ;  he  who  would  fitly  rep- 
resent whatever  is  noble  and  honorable  must  be  a  com- 
position and  pattern  of  the  best  and  honorablest  things ; 
he  who  would  accomplish  a  great  and  Divine  work  in 
the  world  must  above  all  things  keep  himself  pure. 
Without  high  moral  integrity  there  can  be  no  real  suc- 
cess. No  virtue,  no  victory.  With  this  fixed  princi- 
ple did  Milton  begin  life,  and  it  was  the  key  of  his 
success.  Spurning  away  from  him  all  Devil's  Wild 
Oats  fallacies,  and  planting  himself  on  God's  truth, 
''Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap," — 
that,  and  nothing  else,  he  sought  from  early  springtime 
to  make  his  mind  a  garden  of  all  which  might  be  fair 
and  fruitful,  to  implant  therein  the  purest  and  heavenli- 
est  germs,  to  weed  out  all  which  was  rank  and  nox- 
ious ;  to  build  therein  bowers  for  heavenly  contempla- 
tion ;  to  open  fountains  of  divinest  joy,  to  make  it,  in 
a  word,  an  Eden,  the  spiritual  counterpart  oi  that 
earthly  one  of  which  he  was  sanctioned  to  sing.  And 
so,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  he  says: 

"All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 

As  ever  in  my  great  Taskmaster's  eye." 

One  can  easily  see  how  such  a  youth  might  be  rid- 
iculed by  the  gay  young  wits  of  Cambridge;  look- 
ing forward  through  the  Centuries  and  into  Eternity, 
one  can  also  see  how  well  he  could  afford  it. 

Milton  left  the  University  in  his  24th  year.  As  has 
been  already  remarked,  he  was  educated  for  the 
Church.  It  would  seem,  however,  that  while  in  the 
University  his  views  underwent  a  change.  He  himself 
tells  us  that  he  had  been  "destined  to  the  service  of 
the  Church  by  the  intentions  of  his  parents  and  friends, 
and  in  his  own  resplutions ;  till  coming  to  some  matur- 


214  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

ity  of  years,  and  pcrccivlnc^  that  tyranny  had  invaded 
the  Church,  that  he  who  would  take  orders  must  sub- 
scribe slave,  and  take  an  oath  withal  which  he  must 
either  straight  perjure  or  split  his  faith,"  he  thought  it 
*  *  better  to  prefer  a  blameless  silence  before  the  sacred 
office  of  speaking,  bought  and  begun  with  servitude 
and  forswearing."  In  other  words,  we  are  to  under- 
stand that  such  were  the  corruptions  which  had  intro- 
duced themselves  into  the  Church,  such  the  restraints 
imposed  on  the  freedom  which  a  man  like  Milton  must 
claim  for  himself,  so  offensive  the  pretensions  and  as- 
sumptions of  Laudism,  then  a  growing  power  in  the 
Church,  that  Milton,  with  his  nice  sense  of  honor,  his 
independence  and  integrity,  as  well  as  his  strong  Puri- 
tanic sympathies,  could  not  compromise  his  manhood 
and  self-respect  by  such  servility  as  the  Prelacy  w^ould 
require  of  him.  "For  me,"  he  writes  a  few  years 
later,  **  I  have  determined  to  lay  up  as  the  best  treas- 
ure and  solace  of  a  good  old  age,  if  God  vouchsafe  it 
me,  the  honest  liberty  of  free  speech  from  my  youth, 
where  I  shall  think  it  available  in  so  dear  a  concern- 
ment as  the  Church's  good."  Let  me  give  you  here 
one  or  two  examples  of  the  "Free  speech,"  which 
Milton  claimed  he  exercised.  "What  would  ye  say 
now,  grave  fathers,  if  you  should  wake  and  see  un- 
worthy Bishops,  or  rather  no  Bishops,  but  Egyptian 
taskmasters  of  ceremonies  thrust  purposely  upon  the 
groaning  Church,  to  the  affliction  and  vexation  of  God's 
people?  "  "He  that  will  mould  a  modern  Bishop  into 
a  primitive,  must  yield  him  to  be  elected  by  the  popu- 
lar voice,  undiocesed,  unrevenued,  unlorded,  and  leave 
him  nothing  but  brotherly  equality,  matchless  temper- 
ance, frequent  fasting,  incessant  prayer  and  preaching, 
continual  watchings  and  labors  in  his  ministry ;  which, 
what  a  rich  booty  it  would  be,  what  a  plump  endow- 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  21$ 

ment  to  the  many-benefice-gaping  mouth  of  a  prel- 
ate, what  a  relish  it  would  give  to  his  canary-sucking 
and  swan-eating  palate,  let  old  Bishop  Mountain  judge 
for  me."  "They  have  been  in  England^  to  our  souls 
a  sad  and  doleful  succession  of  illiterate  and  blind 
guides ,  to  our  purses  and  goods  a  wasteful  band  of 
robbers,  a  perpetual  havoc  and  rapine ;  to  our  State  a 
continual  hydra  of  mischief  and  molestation,  a  forge  of 
discord  and  rebellion."  A  man  who  would  thus  think 
and  speak  would  have  made  rather  a  singular  figure  in 
the  English  Church  of  that  day.  Such  a  Bishop  or 
Dean  as  he  would  have  made,  one  is  rather  amused  in 
trying  to  imagine.  With  a  Charles  Stuart  at  the  head 
of  the  Nation,  and  a  William  Laud  at  the  head  of  the 
Church,  the  situation  of  a  Rev.  or  Right  Rev.  John 
Milton,  would  have  been  a  peculiar  one.  On  the  whole 
perhaps  Milton  did  wisely  to  hesitate  about  taking 
orders,  at  least  to  postpone  the  matter. 

Having  graduated  at  the  University,  and  being 
"  Church-outed  (as  he  calls  it,)  by  the  prelates,"  he 
went  home  to  his  father,  who  had  retired  from  business 
on  an  ample  competency,  and  had  taken  up  his  abode 
at  Horton,  in  Buckinghamshire,  not  quite  twenty  miles 
due  west  from  London.  To  use  his  own  account :  "  I 
retired  to  my  father's  house,  whither  I  was  accompa- 
nied by  the  regrets  of  most  of  the  fellows  of  the  College, 
who  showed  me  no  common  marks  of  friendship  and 
esteem.  At  my  father's  country  residence,  whither  he 
had  retired  to  pass  his  old  age,  I,  with  every  advan- 
tage of  leisure,  spent  a  complete  holiday  in  turning 
over  the  Greek  and  Latin  writers,  not  but  that  some- 
times I  exchanged  the  country  for  the  town,  either  for 
the  purpose  of  buying  books,  or  for  that  of  learning 
something  new  in  Mathematics,  or  in  Music,  in  which 
sciences  I  then  delighted.     I  then   became  anxious  to 


2l6  LLEWELYN  lOAN  EVANS. 

visit  foreign  parts,  and  particularly  Italy."  These  five 
years  we  must  hastily  pass  over  with  the  remark  that 
the  masques  Comus  and  Arcades,  and  several  of  his 
minor  poems,  such  as  Lycidas,  L' Allegro,  II  Penseroso, 
were  then  composed.  There  is,  however,  one  glimpse 
of  his  inner  life  at  this  time  which  I  must  give  you. 
It  is  contained  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Diodati.  ''You 
make  many  anxious  inquiries,"  he  writes,  ''even  as  to 
what  I  am  thinking  of  Hearken,  Theodotus,  lest  I 
blush,  and  allow  me  for  a  little  to  speak  big  words  to 
you.  You  ask  me  what  I  ^m  thinking  of?  So  may 
the  Good  Deity  help  me,  of  Immortality  !  But  what  am 
I  doing?  I  am  pluming  my  wings,  and  meditating 
flight,  but  as  yet  our  Pegasus  raises  himself  on  very 
tender  pinions.  Let  us  be  lowly  wise."  Out  of  low- 
liness, wisdom,  and  aspiration  like  that,  Diodati  may 
reasonably  expect  that  something  would  come,  as  in- 
deed the  world  knows  that  there  did  come  "things  un- 
attempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme." 

In  the  month  of  April,  1638,  Milton,  being  in  his  30th 
year,  set  out  for  the  continent,  which  was  at  that  time 
the  theater  of  the  Thirty  Years  War.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, an  irrepressible  curiosity  to  see  a  big  Battle,  such 
as  History  informs  us,  carried  distinguished  Members 
of  Congress  and  others  to  the  plains  of  Manassas,  and 
some  of  them  a  little  further,  in  the  Year  of  Grace, 
1861,  that  induced  Milton  to  visit  the  Continent,  for  he 
avoided  the  seat  of  war  entirely.  Neither  was  it  that  he 
might  write  a  Book  of  Travels.  His  literary  ambition  does 
not  seem  to  have  aspired  so  high.  Neither  was  it  for 
recreation.  It  was  work,  serious  business,  a  part  of  that 
discipHnary  "pluming"  process  by  which  he  hoped  to 
prepare  himself  for  that  flight  into  Immortality,  to  which 
he  looked  forward.  At  Paris  he  visited  the  renowned 
Grotius,    who    ' '  took  his  visit  kindly,   and  gave    him 


JOHN    MILTON,     THE    PATRIOT.  217 

entertainment  suitable  to  his  worth  and  the  high  commen- 
dations he  had  heard  of  him.  At  Florence  he  stopped 
about  two  months,  where  he  "contracted  an  intimacy 
with  many  persons  of  rank  and  learning,  and  was  a 
constant  attendant  on  their  literary  parties."  "There 
it  was,"  he  writes,  "that  I  found  and  visited  the  famous 
Galileo,  grown  old  a  prisoner  to  the  Inquisition,  for 
thinking  in  Astronomy  otherwise  than  the  Franciscan 
and  Dominican  licensers  thought."  A  memorable  in- 
terview that,  between  the  blind  old  Martyr  of  Science, 
and  England's  coming  Poet,  now  bright  with  the  beau- 
tiful morn  of  manhood,  but  ere  he  has  fairly  passed  its 
noon,  himself  to  be,  Hke  the  sage  before  him, 

"  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair, 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  nature's  works  to  him  expunged  and  rased. 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out." 

At  Rome  he  "spent  two  months  in  viewing  the  antiqui- 
ties of  that  renowned  city."  At  Naples  he  formed  the 
acquaintance  of  Manso,  the  friend  of  the  illustrious  poet 
Tasso.  "When  I  was  about  to  return  to  Rome,"  he 
says,  "the  merchants  [at  Naples]  warned  me  that  they 
learnt  by  letters  that  snares  were  being  laid  for  me  by 
the  English  Jesuits,  if  I  should  return  to  Rome,  on  the 
ground  that  I  had  spoken  too  freely  concerning  religion. 
For  I  had  made  this  resolution  v/ith  myself — not  indeed 
of  my  own  accord  to  introduce  in  those  places  conv'er- 
sation  about  religion,  but  if  interrogated  respecting  the 
faith,  then,  whatsoever  I  should  suffer,  to  dissemble 
nothing.  To  Rome  therefore  I  did  return,  notwithstand- 
ing what  I  had  been  told ;  what  I  was,  if  any  one  asked, 
I  concealed  from  no  one ;  if  any  one  in  the  very  city  of 
the   Pope   attacked  the  orthodox  religion,  I  as  before, 


2l8  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

for  a  second  space  of  nearly  two  months,  defended  it 
most  freely.''  A  man  evidently  who  knew  no  fear,  who 
did  not  dare  to  lie  ;  who  like  most  of  those  old  Puri- 
tans, like  poor  Prynne,  for  example,  whose  ears  were 
sawed  off,  feared  the  fire  of  hell,  that  is  the  pain  of 
God's  displeasure  and  of  a  guilty  conscience,  more  than 
the  Pope,  or  all  the  fires  of  the  Inquisition  ;  a  man  who, 
had  he  lived  in  our  day,  would  be  much  safer  out  of  the 
*  *  Southern  Confederacy, "  than  in  it.  ' '  By  the  favor  of 
God,"  he  continues,  "I  got  safe  back  to  Florence, 
where  I  was  received  with  as  much  affection  as  if  I  had 
returned  to  my  native  country."  Then  a  month  in  sur- 
veying the  curiosities  of  Venice.  ''At  Geneva  I  held 
daily  conferences  with  John  Diodati,  the  learned  Pro- 
fessor of  Theology.  Then  pursuing  my  former  route 
through  France,  I  returned  to  my  native  country,  after 
an  absence  of  about  one  year  and  three  months." 
At  the  close  of  his  journey  he  was  able  to  make  this 
proud  declaration  :  * '  I  again  take  God  to  witness,  that 
in  all  those  places,  where  so  many  things  are  considered 
lawful,  I  lived  sound  and  untouched  from  all  profligacy 
and  vice,  having  this  thought  perpetually  with  me,  that 
though  I  might  escape  the  eyes  of  men,  I  certainly 
could  not  the  eyes  of  God."  A  man,  we  should  say, 
to  be  trusted,  one  of  an  old  tribe  of  whom  it  has  been 
said  that  they  walked  with  God,  and  lived  as  seeing  the 
Invisible.  It  might  be  worth  our  while  to  inquire, 
how  much  this  fact  had  to  do  with  m.aking  those  men 
just  what  they  were,  and  whether  really  if  we  wish  *'to 
make  our  lives  sublime,"  we  had  not  better  begin  where 
they  did. 

Milton's  return  to  England  was  hastened  by  a  cause 
which  he  describes  as  follows :  *  *  When  I  was  preparing 
to  push  over  into  Sicily  and  Greece,  the  melancholy 
intelligence  which  I  received  of  the  civil  commotions  in 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  2I9 

England  made  me  alter  my  purpose ;  for  I  thought  it 
base  to  be  travelling  for  amusement  abroad,  while  my 
fellow-citizens  were  fighting  for  liberty  at  home."  In 
the  midst  of  the  excitements  of  travel,  the  amenities  of 
refined  social  intercourse,  the  thousand  objects  of  inter- 
est which  greeted  his  scholarly  tastes,  and  poetic 
instincts  on  the  classic  soil  of  Italy,  the  trumpet  of  con- 
flict, sounding  from  his  Northern  island  home,  roused 
the  Hero-spirit  of  the  man,  and  summoned  him  to  the 
battle.  That  great  contest,  one  of  the  grandest  which 
the  world  has  yet  known,  merits  here  a  brief  consider- 
ation. 

The  grand  Puritanic  Revolution,  which  we  are  now 
about  to  contemplate,  was  the  culmination  of  a  struggle 
which  had  been  going  on  in  England  for  more  than  a 
century.  The  conflict  between  the  Old  and  the  New  in 
religion,  between  formalism  and  a  living  faith,  between 
ceremonialism  and  simplicity  in  worship,  between 
priestcraft  and  individual  liberty,  spiritual  tyranny  and 
free  inquiry,  known  as  the  Protestant  Reformation, 
differed  in  various  important  respects  in  England  from 
the  same  movement  elsewhere.  On  the  continent,  the 
contest  was  waged  distinctly  and  definitely  between  the 
Church  of  Rome  on  one  hand,  panoplied  in  the  tradi- 
tions, canons,  and  decretals  of  Ages,  and  the  Protest- 
ants on  the  other,  at  first  a  devout  and  zealous  party 
within  the  Church,  desiring  the  reformation  of  its  prac- 
tices, and  the  purification  of  its  doctrines,  but  after- 
wards by  the  excommunication  and  voluntary  with- 
drawal of  its  members  consolidated  into  a  new  and 
reformed  Church.  In  England,  where  the  contest 
assumed  at  first  the  same  form,  the  insubordination  of 
Henry  VIII.  to  the  Pope,  which  resulted  in  detaching 
the  nation  at  one  blow  from  Rome,  made  the  Church, 
so  far  as  its  foreign  relations  were  concerned,  independ- 


220  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

ent,  but  left  the  contending  parties,  exclusive  of  those 
who  still  adhered  to  the  Pope,  nearly  on  the  same  foot- 
ing as  before,  excepting  that  each  party  found  itself 
more  or  less  restricted  in  the  exercise  of  its  liberty,  and 
constrained  to  abate  somewhat  of  its  claims.  The  conse- 
quence was  that  in  the  very  heart  of  the  English 
Church  were  two  powerful  opposite  tendencies,  the  one 
gravitating  toward  Rome,  the  other  toward  Geneva. 
The  former,  having  triumphed  in  the  ritual  and  worship 
of  the  Church,  sought  also  to  Romanize  its  doctrines; 
the  latter  having  triumphed  in  its  articles  and  homilies, 
sought  also  to  simplify  its  forms.  The  one  retained 
its  reverence  for  an  imposing  hierarchy,  endowed  with 
plenary  powers  in  all  ecclesiastical  and  religious  matters; 
the  other,  rejecting  the  rank-distinctions  of  prelacy  as 
unscrlptural,  inclined  to  a  more  democratic  theory  of  the 
constitution  of  the  Church,  and  of  the  rights  and  liber- 
ties of  its  members.  The  prelatical  party,  having 
transferred  to  the  English  Monarch  the  allegiance 
which  had  formerly  been  yielded  to  the  Pope,  easily 
glided  into  the  most  servile  theories  of  the  Divine  Right 
of  Kings,  and  the  duty  of  non-resistant  submission;  the 
Presbyterian  party,  having  always  resisted  the  usurpa- 
tion of  ecclesiastical  authority  by  the  civil  power,  were 
exceedingly  jealous  of  all  royal  encroachments  on  their 
political,  as  well  as  religious  liberties.  Under  the 
Tudors  this  controversy,  although  at  times  it  raged  vio- 
lently, was  nevertheless  working  toward  a  harmonious 
solution.  Henry  and  Elizabeth  were,  it  is  true,  inflex- 
ible, and  often  arbitrary,  in  the  assertion  of  the  royal 
prerogative,  but  they  had  wisdom  also  to  foresee  the 
point  beyond  which  it  might  not  be  safe  to  wage  their 
claims.  The  Stuarts  were  not  gifted  with  the  same  dis- 
cretion. James  I.  insulted  his  Parliament  by  remind- 
ing them  that  they  held  their  privileges  only  during  his 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  221 

good  pleasure,  and  that  they  had  no  more  right  to 
examine  his  prerogatives  than  those  of  the  Deity. 
Fortunately  however,  he  possessed  neither  the  courage, 
nor  the  ability  to  maintain  his  extravagant  pretensions 
against  their  opposition.  His  son,  Charles!.,  who  suc- 
ceeded him,  had  far  more  strength  of  will.  He  was  a 
despot  by  nature,  by  education  and  by  conviction.  No 
obligation  into  which  he  entered  toward  his  subjects 
could  bind  him.  He  violated  without  compunction  the 
most  solemn  pledges  given  to  the  nation.  Finding  Par- 
liament intractable,  he  dissolved  it  once  and  again,  and 
at  last  sought  to  govern  the  nation  without  it.  He  lev- 
ied by  his  own  authority  taxes  which  were  without  a 
shadow  of  legal  right.  The  Star  Chamber  and  High 
Commission  Courts  exercised  the  most  tyrannical  inqui- 
sitional functions,  and  fined,  imprisoned,  pilloried  and 
mutilated  their  victims  with  malignant  ferocity,  His 
political  counselor,  Wentworth,  Earl  of  Strafford,  a  man 
of  consummate  ability  and  imperious  resolution,  sought 
to  convert  the  monarchy  into  an  absolute  despotism, 
and  to  make  the  crown  the  unchallenged  arbiter  of  the 
property  and  liberty  of  the  subject.  His  religious  coun- 
sellor. Laud,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  a  man  of  nar- 
row but  decided  views,  of  an  irritable  but  unyielding 
temper,  sought  by  cruel  oppressions  and  persecutions, 
to  crush  out  Puritanism,  in  the  Church,  and  out  of  it. 
Many  fled  for  refuge  to  the  wilds  of  New  England,  there 
to  lay  the  foundations  of  a  free  Commonwealth.  Those 
who  remained  were  filled  with  dismal  forebodings  for 
the  future.  But  at  this  juncture  the  Primate,  in  the 
very  insanity  of  bigotry,  determined  to  subjugate 
Scotland  to  his  Anglo-Romanism :  Scotland,  the  land 
of  Knox,  the  hotbed  of  Puritanism,  where  Rome  was 
hated  as  the  gate  of  perdition,  and  where  the  choice 
between  the  Pope  and  the  Devil  might  not  have  been 


222  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

the  most  flattering  to  his  Holiness.  On  this  country- 
Laud  resolved  to  impose  two  abominations,  as  the  Scotch 
considered  them,  Bishops  and  a  Liturgy.  The  country 
rose  in  mass  against  them.  In  St.  Giles*  Kirk,  Edin- 
burg,  as  the  Bishop  was  proceeding  to  read  the  Collect 
of  the  day,  Jenny  Geddes,  a  market-woman,  hurled  her 
stool  at  his  head.  Some  cried  out — *'A  Pape !  a 
Pape!"  Others,— "Stane  him!  Stane  him!"  The 
riot  grew  into  a  general  rebellion.  The  King,  unsuc- 
cessful in  his  attemps  to  subdue  it,  and  being  without 
means  to  carry  on  the  war,  was  compelled  to  call  Parlia- 
ment, which  had  not  met  for  eleven  years,  the  longest 
interval  between  two  Parliaments  ever  known  in  the  his- 
tory of  England.  That  which  now  met  however,  made 
up  for  it  perhaps,  by  continuing  in  power  thirteen 
years,  whence  it  is  called  the  ''Long  Parliament." 

These  were  the  ''civil  commotions,"  the  "melan- 
choly intelligence  "  of  which  caused  Milton  to  abandon 
his  plan  of  visiting  Greece,  and  to  return  immediately 
to  his  native  land.  The  decision  must  have  cost  him 
no  small  struggle.  Flushed  with  the  tribute  of  admi- 
ration and  praise  which  he  everywhere  received,  revel- 
ling in  the  contemplation  of  scenes  crowned  with  his- 
toric interest,  drinking  into  his  soul  the  inspirations  of 
the  past  and  the  present,  storing  his  mind  with  rare 
and  glorious  images  wherewith  to  adorn  the  future  cre- 
ations of  his  genius,  and  exulting  in  the  prospect  of  the 
increase  of  such  delights  amid  other  and  still  more 
venerable  scenes,  it  must  have  required  no  ordinary 
resolution  to  resist  such  fascinations,  or  to  deny  him- 
self such  enjoyments.  But  Milton  was  no  intellectual 
voluptuary,  no  self-pampering  virtuoso,  to  whom  the 
gratification  of  his  own  desires,  and  the  culture  of  his 
own  powers  were  objects  of  infinitely  higher  conse- 
quence than  the  rights  and  interests  of  his  fellow-men. 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE  PATRIOT.  22^ 

Like  every  true  man  he  felt  that  his  hfe  and  powers 
were  not  his  own,  and  that  it  was,  as  he  said,  * '  a  base 
thing  to  be  seeking  his  own  amusement,  while  his  fel- 
low-citizens were  fighting  for  liberty  at  home."  This 
was  his  first  great  victory ;  others  and  greater  ones  were 
soon  to  follow. 

*'  As  soon  as  I  was  able,"  he  informs  us,  ''I  hired  a 
spacious  house  for  myself  and  my  books,  where  I  again 
with  rapture  renewed  my  literary  pursuits,  and  where  I 
calmly  awaited  the  issue  of  the  contest,  which  I  trusted 
to  the  wise  conduct  of  Providence,  and  to  the  courage 
of  the  people."     This  curious  statement,  which  seems 
at  first  sight  to  be  at  variance  with  the  avowed  object 
of  his  return,  to   take  an    active    part   in  the   struggle 
then  going  on,  is  to  be  explained  as  follows.     He  found 
on  his  arrival  in  England,  that  the  commotions  which 
had  been  reported  to  him  in  Italy,  and  which  perhaps, 
as   usual,  had  been  magnified  by  rumor,    had  sensibly 
subsided  at  the   reassembling  of  Parliament  in    1640. 
He  therefore  wisely  deemed  it  best  to  await  the  issue 
now   being    tried    between    the  King  and  Parliament. 
*'  With  raptiwe,''  he  tells  us,    ''he  renewed  his  literary 
pursuits,"  an  expression  which  shows  us  how  much  it 
had    cost    him    to    give  them  up.      In  the    ''spacious 
house  "  hired  by  him,  he  taught  a  number  of  boys  after 
a  system  of  education  very  different  from  that  pursued 
in  all  the  public  institutions    of  that   day,   and    much 
more   nearly  resembling  our   modern    systems.      I  am 
probably   safe  also    in  saying,  incredible  as  the  state- 
ment may  appear  to  an  American,  whose  first  business 
in  life  it  is  to  get  born,  and  whose  second  it  is  to  set 
up   for   himself,  that  Milton,  now  a  bachelor  of  thirty- 
two,  had  never  earned  a  penny  in  the  world,  until  he 
began  to  teach  this  select  school  in  London. 

But  not  long  did  Milton  indulge  in  the  favorite  liter- 


224  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

ary  occupations,  to  which  he  so  rapturously  returned. 
The  battle  began  to  be  too  hot  all  about  him  for  such 
as  him  to  remain  quiet;  but  on  which  side  should  he 
fight  ?  To  which  of  the  great  parties  should  he  attach 
himself?  On  the  one  side  was  royalty,  surrounded  by 
the  romance  of  "Right  Divine,"  and  by  the  base  ac- 
tualities of  perfidy,  cruelty,  and  tyranny :  there  was 
Prelacy  with  its  semi-popery  of  genuflections  and  sur- 
plices, its  ''piebald  frippery,  and  ostentation  of  cere- 
monies;" there,  for  the  most  part,  was  the  nobility, 
priding  itself  on  its  pedigrees,  its  gentle  blood,  its  aris- 
tocratic privileges ;  with  a  loose  crowd  of  base  fellows 
of  the  lewder  sort  ''bringing  up  the  rear."  On  the 
other  side,  led  by  a  few  noblemen,  of  heaven's  line  as 
well  as  of  earth's,  were  the  people  of  England,  its  stout 
and  sturdy  yeomanry  ;  its  middle  classes,  its  farmers, 
artisans,  "greasy  mechanics,"  as  in  the  refined  voca- 
bulary of  a  modern  chivalry  they  would  be  called, 
above  all,  the  Puritanism,  of  England,  that  is  to  say, 
its  faith  in  God,  its  zeal  for  reformation,  its  yearnings 
after  spiritual  progress,  its  Divine  scorn  of  shams  in 
Church  and  State,  its  Hell  -  Devil- defying  earnest- 
ness, its  martyr-spirit,  as  Milton  so  gratefully  describes 
it,  "with  the  unresistible  might  of  weakness  shaking 
the  powers  of  darkness,  and  scorning  the  fiery  rage  of 
the  old  red  dragon."  For  this  is  what  the  Puritanism 
of  the  Seventeenth  Century  meant.  It  was  not  the 
canting,  sniffling,  drawling,  bigoted,  morose  deformity, 
which  the  stage  buffoons  of  that  day  caricatured,  and 
which  godless  satirists  of  later  days  have  travestied. 
Neither  was  it  exclusively  that  bundle  of  rigidities,  ex- 
aggerations, and  Hcbrewisms,  which  Macaulay,  with 
his  fondness  for  brilliant  colorings  and  pointed  aphor- 
isms, has  grouped  together.  Charles  Kingsley  says 
truly  of  the   "average   Puritan,   nobleman,   gentleman. 


JOHN    MILTON,   THE  PATRIOT.  22$ 

merchant,  or  farmer,"  that  he  was  *'a  picturesque  and 
poetical  man,  a  man  of  higher  imagination  and  deeper 
feehng  than  the  average  of  Court  poets,  and  a  man  of 
sound  taste  also:"  and  that  ''we,  if  v/e  met  such  a 
ruffed  and  ruffled  worthy  as  used  to  swagger  by  hun- 
dreds up  and  down  Paul's  Walk,  not  knowing  how  to 
get  a  dinner,  much  less  to  pay  his  tailor,  should  look 
on  him  as  firstly  a  fool,  and  secondly,  a  swindler: 
while,  if  we  met  an  old  Puritan,  we  should  consider 
him  a  man  gracefully  and  picturesquely  dressed,  but 
withal  in  the  most  perfect  sobriety  of  good  taste  ;  and 
when  we  discovered,  (as  we  probably  should,)  over  and 
above,  that  the  harlequin  cavalier  had  a  box  of  salve 
and  a  pair  of  dice  in  one  pocket,  a  pack  of  cards  and  a 
few  pawnbroker's  duplicates  in  the  other,  that  his 
thoughts  were  altogether  of  citizen's  wives,  and  their 
too  easy  virtue,  and  that  he  could  not  open  his  mouth 
without  a  dozen  oaths,  we  should  consider  the  Puritan, 
(even  though  he  did  quote  Scripture  somewhat  through 
his  nose),  as  the  gentleman,  and  the  courtier  as  a  most 
offensive  specimen  of  the  '  snob  triumphant,  glorying 
in  his  shame.'  " 

It  is  always  well  when  we  can,  to  give  modern  illus- 
trations of  ancient  facts  ;  I  may,  therefore,  be  allowed 
to  introduce  in  this  connection  a  short  extract  from  the 
Special  Correspondence  of  the  London  Times,  a  for- 
eign newspaper.  The  writer  informs  the  world  that  the 
inhabitants  of  a  well  known  Southern  State,  whose 
*' admiration  for  monarchical  institutions,  privileged 
classes  and  a  landed  aristocracy  is  undisguised  and 
apparently  genuine,"  naturally  "regard  with  an  aver- 
sion of  which  it  is  impossible  to  give  an  idea  to  one 
who  has  not  seen  its  manifestations,  the  people  of  New 
England  and  the  populations  of  the  Northern  States, 
whom  they  regard  as  tainted  beyond  cure  by  the  venom 


226  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

of  'Puritanism.'  Whatever  may  be  the  cause,  this  is 
the  fact  and  the  effect.  *  The  State  of  South  CaroHna 
was,'  I  am  told,  'founded  by  gentlemen.'  It  was  not 
established  by  witch-burning  Puritans,  by  cruel  perse- 
cuting fanatics,  etc.  It  is  absolutely  astounding  to  a 
stranger  who  aims  at  the  preservation  of  a  decent  neu- 
trality to  mark  the  violence  of  these  opinions.  '  If 
that  confounded  ship  had  sunk  with  those  —  Pilgrim 
Fathers  on  board,'  says  one,  'we  never  should  have 
been  driven  to  these  extremities.  We  could  have  got 
on  with  these  fanatics  if  they  had  been  either  Christians 
or  gentlemen,'  says  another,  'for  in  the  first  case  they 
would  have  acted  with  common  charity  and  in  the  sec- 
ond they  would  have  fought  when  they  insulted  us ; 
but  there  are  neither  Christians  nor  gentlemen  among 
them.'  (It  is  encouraging  to  see  that  there  is  a  ghm- 
mering  consciousness  of  a  difference  between  a  Chris- 
tian and  what  is  known  as  a  gentleman,  even  in  South 
Carolina.)  '  Anything  on  the  earth,'  exclaims  a  third, 
*  any  form  of  government,  any  tyranny  or  despotism 
you  will ;  but ' — and  here  is  an  appeal  more  terrible 
than  the  adjuration  of  all  the  gods — nothing  on  earth 
shall  ever  induce  us  to  submit  to  any  union  with  the 
brutal,  bigoted  blackguards  of  the  New  England 
States,  who  neither  comprehend  nor  regard  the  feeling 
of  gentlemen!  Man,  woman  and  child,  we^ll  die  first.'" 
The  present  contest  between  the  Puritan's  Democracy 
of  the  North  and  the  aristocratic,  self-styled  ' '  Chiv- 
alry "  of  the  South,  is  indeed  in  many  respects  the 
same  old  Seventeenth  Century  conflict  repeating  itself 
under  new  forms — with  this  iinportant  exception^  that 
whereas  Puritanism  seems  to  have  lost  very  little  in 
dropping  the  nasal  twang  and  Old  Testament  dialect  of 
the  Fathers  and  in  working  itself  out  into  Free  Schools, 
Free  Speech,  a  Free  Press,  benevolent  institutions  and 


John  milton,  the  patriot.  227 

Christian  Churches,  assimilating  to  itself  all  the  new 
elements  which  it  has  received  from  without,  and 
adapting  itself  to  the  requirements  of  progress — Chiv- 
alry, reduced  at  first  to  the  fewest  possible  drops  of 
*  gentle  blood,'  and  these  for  the  most  part  the  aristo- 
cratic dregs  of  the  Old  World,  diluted  in  rivers  of  base 
plebeian  blood,  and  pampered  for  nearly  two  centuries 
with  the  vitiating  influences  of  a  rotten  system  of  so- 
ciety, can  not  be  said  to  have  very  much  improved. 
While  accordingly,  I  have  no  doubt  at  all,  that  Crom- 
well, Hampden,  Pym  and  Milton,  if  raised  from  the  dead, 
would  find  very  little  difficulty  in  soon  making  them- 
selves at  home  among  the  Yankees  of  the  North  (which 
indeed  would  be  the  less  to  be  wondered  at,  seeing  that 
some  of  them  came  very  near  being  Yankees,  and  would 
have  been,  had  not  Charles  I.  put  an  embargo  on  their 
expatriation,  a  piece  of  folly  of  which  he  afterwards 
repented  with  his  head) — I  do  think,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  Hamilton,  Holland,  Newcastle,  or  any  old-fashioned 
genuine  cavalier,  would  have  looked  with  something 
more  than  astonishment  if  any  one  of  the  half-a-million 
aspirants  to  the  name  in  Rebeldom  had  approached 
him  with  anything  like  the  familiarity  with  which  a 
cur   might  approach  its  master. 

So  much  for  our  modern  illustration.  Returning  to 
Milton,  you  are  already  prepared  to  hear  that  the  ques- 
tion, which  side  he  should  take  ?  did  not  admit  of  long 
hesitation  on  his  part.  "Already,"  says  Carlyle, 
**  either  in  conscious  act,  or  clear  tendency,  the  far 
greater  part  of  the  serious  thought  and  manhood  of 
England  had  asserted  itself  Puritan."  Milton  is  proof 
of  this.  He  was  by  birth,  education,  instinct  and 
choice,  a  Puritan.  He  was  no  compromise,  or  half-way 
man,  as  some  have  sought  to  delineate  him.  No  one 
who  reads  his  works  can  doubt  this  for  a  moment.     He 


228  LLEWELYN    lOAN  EVANS. 

was  indeed  the  Ideal  Puritan  of  his  age,  of  all  time ; 
far  more  truly  than  Rupert,  or  the  ' '  wandering 
Charlie"  could  be  called  the  Ideal  Cavalier,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  an  Ideal  is  something  toward  which 
there  is  an  upivard  tendency. .  A  class  which  is  ever 
tending  downward  can  not  properly  be  said  to  have  an 
Ideal.  It  is  far  juster,  therefore,  to  judge  the  Puri- 
tans by  their  representative  men  than  to  judge  the 
Chivalry  by  theirs.  For  such  a  man  as  Milton  was, 
such  did  each  humbler  Puritan,  each  Sword-of  the-Lord 
and-Gideon  Heartwell  or  Smite-them-hip-and-thigh 
Armsteady  strive,  in  some  dumb  or  stammering  fashion, 
to  be.  Each  one  sought  in  his  rough  way  to  make 
his  life  a  poem,  and  had  more  or  less  success  in  the 
same.  If  not  very  musical,  it  was  at  least  a  genuine 
poem.  It  may  be  said  indeed  that  Cromwell  is  the  true 
exponent  of  Puritanism,  and  so  he  is  of  Puritanism 
considered  as  an  active,  combative,  conquering  and  reg- 
nant force  in  History  ;  but  of  the  Puritan  character,  re- 
garded in  itself,  in  its  seriousness,  purity,  conscientious- 
ness and  earnest  sympathy  with  beauty  and  truth,  John 
Milton  is  the  noblest  Model  we  have. 

This  representative  Puritan  then,  being  at  that  time 
a  humble  schoolmaster  in  London,  saw,  in  looking 
around  him,  that  the  Church,  as  then  managed  and 
ruled,  was  ''the  grand  engine  of  oppression  in  the 
hands  of  the  King."  When,  therefore,  the  Parliament 
began  ''to  humble  the  pride  of  the  Bishops,"  all  his 
attention  and  zeal  was  awakened.  *' I  saw,"  to  use 
his  own  language,  "that  a  way  was  opening  for  the 
establishment  of  real  liberty ;  that  the  foundation  was 
laying  for  the  deliverance  of  man  from  the  yoke  of 
slavery  and  superstition  ;  that  the  principles  of  religion 
which  were  the  first  objects  of  my  care,  would  exert  a 
salutary  influence  on  the  manners  and  constitution  of 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  229 

the  Republic  ;  and  as  I  had  from  my  youth  studied  the 
distinctions  between  religious  and  civil  rights,  I  per- 
ceived that  if  I  ever  wished  to  be  of  use,  I  ought  at 
least  not  to  be  wanting  to  my  country,  to  the  Church 
and  to  so  many  of  my  fellow-Christians,  in  a  crisis  of 
so  much  danger.  I  therefore  determined  to  relinquish 
the  other  pursuits  in  which  I  was  engaged,  and  to  trans- 
fer the  whole  force  of  my  talents  and  my  industry  to 
this  one  important  object." 

To  this  end  Milton  wrote  and  published  his  first 
book.  It  was  not,  like  the  first  book  of  many  Miltons 
of  our  day,  a  volume  of  Juvenile  Poems,  published  in 
deference  to  the  urgent  solicitations  of  numerous  friends 
of  the  Author,  although,  as  we  know,  the  charming  lit- 
tle Roundhead  of  ten  was  even  then  a  poet.  Milton's 
first  formal  appearance  before  the  public  was  not  in  the 
character  of  a  poet,  although  anybody  could  see  that 
he  was  a  poet.  Indeed,  to  an  age  so  prolific  in  poets 
and  poetesses,  whose  first  volumes  antedate  by  months 
the  period  of  life  when  according  to  our  overdiscreet 
ancestors  a  young  man  or  a  young  woman  might,  in  ex- 
treme cases,  legally  dispense  with  the  guardianship  of 
their  elders,  it  m.ay  well  be  an  astounding  fact,  that  the 
Author  of  Paradise  Lost,  although  he  had  already 
written  some  of  the  finest  poetry  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, had  not  at  the  age  of  thirty-two  deliberately 
printed  a  single  volume.  A  few  of  his  poems  had,  it 
is  true,  crept  into  print;  some,  as  Lycidas,  hiding  them- 
selves modestly  in  collections  of  poems  by  various 
authors;  others,  as  the  Masques  Arcades  and  Comus, 
printed  for  the  accommodation  of  the  musical  public; 
none,  so  far  as  I  can  discover,  of  malice  aforethought 
on  the  part  of  Milton.  Verily  times  change  and  poets 
change  with  them.  But  then!  the  brilliant  discovery 
had  not  yet  been  made,  that  Modesty  is  scarcely  com- 


230  LLEWELYN    lOAN   EVANS. 

patible  with  the  self-conscious  greatness  of  Genius ;  and 
the  spirit  of  modern  enterprise  had  hardly  begun  to 
show  itself,  which,  as  it  would  not  shrink  from  con- 
tracting to  build  Rome  in  a  day,  would  as  little  hesitate 
to  supply  the  New  York  Ledger  with  one  book  of  the 
Iliad  per  week.  It  is  a  fact  then,  not  without  its  les- 
son to  aftertimes,  that  the  greatest  poet  of  his  age, 
and  one  of  the  greatest  of  all  time,  did  not  print  a 
book  until  he  saw  that  the  time  had  come  when  he 
might  strike  a  telling  blow  for  the  truth. 

Dr.  Johnson  has  insinuated  that  Milton's  cowardice 
led  him  to  use  the  pen  instead  of  the  sword.  Had  Mil- 
ton been  a  Tory,  the  good  Doctor  would  have  spurned 
such  a  suspicion  with  scorn.  Is  a  man  necessarily  a 
coward,  who  believes  that  he  can  better  serve  his  coun- 
try otherwise  than  as  a  soldier  ?  There  are  times  when 
a  soldier's  calling  and  a  soldier's  work  seem  transfig- 
ured with  rare  and  radiant  glory.  Honor,  immortal 
honor,  to  those  who  at  their  country's  call  gird  them- 
selves for  the  battle,  step  into  the  serried  ranks,  march 
to  the  stirring  strains  of  liberty,  follow  the  good  old 
flag  of  their  nation's  honor,  gather  around  it  with  un- 
daunted hearts  where  the  battle-storm  is  loudest,  charge 
on  the  foe  with  exultant  shout  where  the  sulphur  clouds 
are  thickest,  disdaining  danger,  braving  death  for  God 
and  their  right.  Blessed  are  they  when  their  Country 
crowns  their  triumphant  return  with  the  laurel  wreaths 
of  victory.  Blessed  are  they  when  Peace,  restored  by 
their  stout  arms  and  valorous  hearts,  sweetens  their  cup 
of  joy  with  the  proud  memories  of  self-sacrificing  de- 
votion. Thrice  blessed  are  they  when  their  poured 
out  blood  is  a  part  of  the  price  by  which  their  country's 
deliverance  is  purchased,  and  when, mourning  their  loss, 
she  hallows  with  her  tears  the  sod  beneath  which  moul- 
der the  hearts  of  her  fallen  brave.     But  are  there  no 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  23 1 

battles  except  at  the  cannon's  mouth  ?  Is  there  no 
courage  but  that  which  can  face  without  quailing  the 
thunder  of  artillery  ?  Are  there  not  other  sacrifices  no 
less  hard,  no  less  costly  than  that  of  life  ?  Was  Milton 
the  less  a  hero  because  he  conquered  himself,  and 
gained  a  victory  over  the  ruling  passion,  the  daring 
ambition  of  his  soul,  than  if  he  had  shot  down  a  royal- 
ist ?  Consider  a  moment  what  is  implied  in  the  modest 
declaration  before  quoted  :  *  *  I  therefore  determined  to 
relinquish  the  other  pursuits  in  which  I  was  engaged  and 
to  transfer  the  whole  force  of  my  talents  and  my  in- 
dustry to  this  one  important  object."  Remember  that 
for  years  he  had  cherished  in  his  inmost  soul  the  de- 
sign of  producing  a  poem  such  as  that  '*aftertimes 
should  not  willingly  let  it  die  ;  "  that  it  was  his  fond 
hope,  "that  what  the  greatest  and  choicest  wits  of 
Athens,  Rome,  or  modern  Italy,  and  those  Hebrews 
of  old  did  for  their  country,  (I  quote  his  own  words,) 
I,  in  my  proportion,  with  this  over  and  above  of  being 
a  Christian,  might  do  for  mine  ;  "  that  it  was  the  dream 
of  his  waking  and  sleeping  hours  to  write  "  a  work  not 
to  be  raised  from  the  heat  of  youth,  as  the  vapors  of 
wine;  Hke  that  which  flows  at  waste  from  the  pen  of 
some  vulgar  amourist,  or  the  trencher  fury  of  a  rhym- 
ing parasite  ;  nor  to  be  obtained  by  the  invocation  of 
dame  memory  and  her  siren  daughters,  but  by  devout 
prayer  to  that  eternal  Spirit,  who  can  enrich  with  all 
utterance  and  knowledge,  and  sends  out  his  seraphim, 
with  the  hallowed  fire  of  his  altar,  to  touch  and  purify 
the  lips  of  whom  he  pleases ;  "  that  to  accomplish  this 
work,  he  had  from  earliest  youth  bestowed  on  all  his 
powers  the  deepest  culture,  that  he  had  sought  to  keep 
his  soul  pure  from  every  contamination  of  vice,  that 
he  had  traveled  abroad,  visiting  the  ruins  of  antiquity, 
communing  at  once  with  the  glories   of  the  Past,  and 


232  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

with  the  life  of  the  Present,  that  he  had  in  a  word  so 
labored  and  lived  that  those  who  knew  him  best  re- 
garded him  with  wondering  awe,  as  a  magnificent 
promise,  heralding  its  own  fulfillment.  Was  it  nothing 
to  tear  himself  from  those  beloved  occupations,  to  turn 
his  back  on  that  glowing  hope,  which  had  been  to  him 
the  morning  star  of  Immortality  ;  to  resign  for  years, 
it  might  be  forever,  the  possibility  of  giving  birth  to 
those  transcendent  creations,  which  even  then  awaited 
the  fiat  of  his  genius?  Was  it  no  sacrifice  "  to  inter- 
rupt (as  he  says),  the  pursuit  of  no  less  hopes  than 
these,  and  leave  a  calm  and  pleasing  solitariness,  fed 
with  cheerful  and  confident  thoughts,  to  embark  in  a 
troubled  sea  of  noises  and  hoarse  disputes,  put  from 
beholding  the  bright  countenance  of  truth  in  the  quiet 
and  still  air  of  delightful  studies,  to  come  into  the  dim 
reflection  of  antiquities  sold  by  the  seeming  bulk,  and 
there  be  fain  to  club  quotations  with  jmen  whose  learn- 
ing and  belief  lies  in  marginal  stuffings?"  Ah!  Dr. 
Johnson,  you  too  were  a  hero,  I  admit,  and  no  common 
one  either,  albeit  a  very  surly  one ;  but  I  must  say  that 
I  can  find  nothing  in  your  life  quite  as  heroic  as  this 
one  act  of  Milton's,  this  resolution  to  lay  aside  that 
lyre  of  exquisite  sound  which  God  had  given  him,  to 
lock  up  within  him  those  "thoughts  that  moved  har- 
monious numbers  ;"  to  bid  adieu  to  those  fair  ideals  of 
beauty,  harmony,  and  truth,  which  thronged  his  path, 
and  beckoned  him  to  their  high  abodes,  and  to  beat 
about  among  the  stupidities  and  inanities  of  frog-and- 
mice  controversies,  to  open  the  *'  packsaddles  "of  pom- 
pous pedants,  and  to  fight  the  '*  inquisitorious  and 
tyrannical  duncery  "  of  the  heroes  of  unsung  Dunciads. 
**  But  were  it  the  meanest  underservice,  if  God,  by  his 
secretary  Conscience  enjoin  it,  it  were  sad  for  me  if  I 
should  draw  back."     Who  but  a  hero  could  have  said 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT,  233 

that?  But  hear  his  own  vindication:  "Though  I  did 
not  participate  in  the  toils  or  dangers  of  the  war,  yet 
I  was  at  the  same  time  engaged  in  a  service  not  less 
hazardous  to  myself,  and  more  beneficial  to  my  fellow- 
citizens  ;  nor  in  the  adverse  turns  of  our  affairs  did  I 
ever  betray  any  symptoms  of  pusillanimity  and  dejec- 
tion, or  show  myself  more  afraid  than  became  me,  of 
malice  or  of  death  ;  for  since  from  my  youth  I  was  de- 
voted to  the  pursuits  of  literature,  and  my  mind  had 
always  been  stronger  than  my  body,  I  did  not  court 
the  labors,  of  a  camp,  in  which  any  common  person 
would  have  been  of  more  service  than  myself,  but  re- 
sorted to  that  employment  in  which  my  exertions  were 
likely  to  be  of  most  avail.  Thus  with  the  better  part 
of  my  frame,  I  contributed  as  much  as  possible  to  the 
good  of  my  country,  and  to  the  success  of  the  glorious 
cause  in  which  we  were  engaged.  .  ,  .  Hence,  while 
I  applaud  those  who  were  victorious  in  the  field,  I  will 
not  complain  of  the  province  which  was  assigned  me ; 
but  rather  congratulate  myself  upon  it,  and  thank  the 
author  of  all  good  for  having  placed  me  in  a  station, 
which  may  be  an  object  of  envy  to  others,  rather  than 
of  regret  to  myself." 

Milton's  first  book  was  entitled,  ''Of  Reformation  in 
England,  and  the  causes  that  hitherto  have  hindered  it." 
Its  object  is  to  prove  that  prelacy  is  essentially  hostile 
to  civil  liberty.  It  is  written  with  vigor,  acuteness,  and 
eloquence;  it  is  rich  in  illustration,  ponderous  in  argu- 
ment, severe  in  its  satire,  and  often  majestic  in  style, 
as  well  as  thought.  His  picture  of  modern  politics 
would  hardly  be  suspected  of  being  220  years  old. 
''This  is  the  masterpiece  of  a  modern  politician;  how 
to  qualify  and  mould  the  sufferance  and  subjection  of 
the  people  to  the  length  of  that  foot  that  is  to  tread  on 
their  necks ;  how  rapine  may  serve  itself  with  the  fair 


234  LLEWELYN   lOAN   EVANS. 

and  honorable  pretenses  of  public  good ;  how  the  puny 
law  may  be  brought  under  the  wardship  and  control  of 
lust  and  will,  in  which  attempt  if  they  fall  short  then 
must  a  superficial  cola  of  reputation  by  all  means,  direct 
or  indirect,  be  gotten  to  wash  over  the  unsightly  bruise 
of  honor.  .  .  .  To  be  plainer,  sir,  how  to  sodder,  how 
to  stop  a  leak,  how  to  keep  up  the  floating  carcass  of 
a  crazy  and  diseased  monarchy  or  state,  betwixt  wind 
and  water,  swimming  still  upon  her  own  dead  lees,  that 
now  is  the  deep  design  of  a  politician.  Alas,  sir !  a 
commonwealth  ought  to  be  but  as  one  hug^  Christian 
personage,  one  mighty  growth  and  stature  of  an  honest 
man,  as  big  and  compact  in  virtue  as  in  body." 

One  of  the  fashionable  cant  phrases  of  Milton's  time 
was,  that  extremes  must  be  avoided.  It  would  seem 
that  there  then  existed  a  class  of  nice  respectable  citi- 
zens, who  prided  themselves  greatly  on  their  modera- 
tion, and  who  had  an  especial  horror  of  everything  like 
ultraism.  **  We  must  not  run, "  they  said,  * '  into  sudden 
extremes."  Milton  boldly  challenged  this  dictum. 
*  *  This  is  a  fallacious  rule,  unless  understood  only  of  the 
actions  of  virtue  about  things  indifferent ;  for  if  it  be 
found  that  those  two  extremes  be  vice  and  virtue,  false- 
hood and  truth,  the  greater  extremity  of  virtue  and 
superlative  truth  we  run  into,  the  more  virtuous  and 
the  more  wise  we  become ;  and  he  that,  flying  from 
degenerate  and  traditional  corruption,  fears  to  shoot 
himself  too  far  into  the  meeting  embraces  of  a  divinely 
warranted  reformation  had  better  not  have  run  at  all.  .  . 
Certainly  we  ought  to  hie  us  from  evil  like  a  torrent, 
and  rid  ourselves  of  corrupt  discipline,  as  we  would 
shake  fire  out  of  our  bosoms." 

That  same  respectable  class  seems  moreover  to  have 
been  exceedingly  hostile  to  the  idea  of  a  "  Higher  Law." 
Prelacy,  they  said,  must  not  be  touched  because  it  was 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  235 

now  SO  "weaved  into  the  common  law."  ''In  God's 
name"  then,  says  Milton,  "let  it  weave  out  again;  let 
not  human  quillets  keep  back  divine  authority.  It  is 
not  the  common  law,  nor  the  civil,  but  piety  and  justice 
that  are  our  foundresses ;  they  stoop  not,  neither  change 
color  for  aristocracy,  democracy,  or  monarchy,  nor  yet 
at  all  interrupt  their  just  courses,  but  far  above  the  tak- 
ing notice  of  these  inferior  niceties,  with  perfect  sym- 
pathy, wherever  they  meet,  kiss  each  other." 

The  book  closes  with  one  of  the  sublimest  prayers 
ever  breathed  to  heaven ;  and  so  appropriate  are  its 
petitions  to  our  present  national  condition,  that  I  cannot 
refrain  from  rehearsing  a  portion  of  it,  as  specimen  of 
an  old-time  patriotic  prayer:  "And  now  we  know,  O 
Thou  our  most  certain  hope  and  defense,  that  thine 
enemies  have  been  consulting  all  the  sorceries  of  the 
great  whore,  and  have  joined  their  plots  with  that  sad 
intelligencing  tyrant  that  mischiefs  the  world  with  his 
mines  of  Ophir,  and  lies  thirsting  to  revenge  his  naval 
ruins  that  have  larded  our  seas;  but  let  them  all  take 
counsel  together,  and  let  it  come  to  naught;  let  them 
decree,  and  do  thou  cancel  it;  let  them  gather  them- 
selves, and  be  scattered ;  let  them  embattle  themselves, 
and  be  broken,  for  thou  art  with  us.  Then  amidst  the 
hymns  and  hallelujahs  of  saints,  some  one  may  perhaps 
be  heard  offering  at  high  strains,  in  new  and  lofty  meas- 
ures, to  sing  and  celebrate  Thy  Divine  mercies  and 
marvellous  judgments  in  this  land  throughout  all  ages; 
whereby  this  great  and  warlike  nation,  instructed  and 
inured  to  the  fervent  and  continual  practice  of  truth 
and  righteousness  and  casting  far  from  her  the  rays  of 
her  old  vices,  may  press  on  hard  to  that  high  and  happy 
emulation,  to  be  found  the  soberest,  wisest  and  most 
Christian  people  at  that  day,  when  Thou,  the  eternal 
and  shortly-expected  King,  shalt   open  the   clouds  to 


236  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

judge  the  several  kingdoms  of  the  world,  and  distributing 
national  honors  and  rewards  to  religious  and  just  com- 
monwealths, shalt  put  an  end  to  all  earthly  tyrannies, 
proclaiming  thy  universal  and  mild  monarchy  through 
heaven  and  earth;  where  they  undoubtedly,  that  by 
their  labors,  counsels  and  prayers,  have  been  earnest  for 
the  common  good  of  religion  and  their  country,  shall 
receive  above  the  inferior  orders  of  the  blessed,  the  regal 
additions  of  principalities,  legions  and  thrones  into  their 
glorious  titles,  and  in  supereminence  of  beatific  vision, 
progressing  the  dateless  and  irrevoluble  circle  of  eter- 
nity, shall  clasp  inseparable  hands  with  joy  and  bliss,  in 
overmeasure  for  ever  !  " 

Milton,  having  thus  thrown  himself  into  the  conflict, 
carried  it  on  with  invincible  earnestness.  Pamphlet 
after  pamphlet  issued  from  his  hand,  abounding  in 
learning,  argument,  eloquence  and  wisdom,  confirming 
what  Cowper  says,  that — 

"  A  terrible  sagacity  informs 
The  poet's  heart." 

How  beautifully  does  he  discourse  of  the  necessity  of 
discipHne,  or,  as  we  may  call  it,  government.  ''He  that 
hath  read  with  judgment  of  nations  and  common- 
v/ealths,  of  cities  and  camps,  of  peace  and  war,  sea 
and  land,  will  readily  agree  that  the  flourishing  and  de- 
caying of  all  civil  societies,  all  the  moments  and  turn- 
ings of  human  occasions  are  moved  to  and  fro,  as 
upon  the  axle  of  discipline.  So  that  whatsoever  power 
or  sway  in  mortal  things,  weaker  men  have  attributed 
to  fortune,  I  durst,  with  more  confidence  (the  honor  of 
Divine  Providence  ever  saved),  ascribe  either  to  the 
vigor  or  to  the  slackness  of  discipline.  Nor  is  there 
any  social  perfection  in  this  life,  civil  or  sacred,  that 
can  be  above  discipline ;  but  she  is  that  which  with  her 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  237 

musical  cords  preserves  and  holds  all  the  parts  thereof 
together.  .  .  .  And  certainly  discipline  is  not  only  the 
removal  of  disorder ;  but  if  any  visible  shape  can  be 
given  to  divine  things,  the  very  visible  shape  and  image 
of  virtue,  whereby  she  is  not  only  seen  in  the  regular 
gestures  and  motions  of  her  heavenly  paces  as  she 
walks,  but  also  makes  the  harmony  of  her  voice  audible 
to  mortal  ears.  Yea,  the  angels  themselves,  in  whom 
no  disorder  is  feared,  as  the  apostle  that  saw  them  in 
his  rapture  describes,  are  distinguished  and  quaterni- 
oned  into  the  celestial  princedoms  and  satrapies,  accord- 
ing as  God  himself  has  writ  his  imperial  decrees  through 
the  great  provinces  of  heaven.  The  state  also  of  the 
blessed  in  Paradise,  though  never  so  perfect,  is  not 
therefore  left  without  discipline,  whose  golden  survey- 
ing reed,  marks  out  and  measures  every  quarter  and 
circuit  of  New  Jerusalem." 

Under  a  Republican  government  no  question  can  be 
more  important  than — What  should  be  the  qualifications 
of  its  rulers  ?  Hear  what  Milton  says  :  A  ruler  must 
be  "such  a  one  as  is  a  true  knower  of  himself,  and 
in  whom  contemplation  and  practice,  wit,  prudence,  for- 
titude and  eloquence,  must  be  rarely  met,  both  to  com- 
prehend the  hidden  causes  of  things  and  span  in  his 
thoughts  all  the  various  effects  that  passion  or  complex- 
ion can  work  in  man's  nature;  and  hereto  must  his 
hand  be  at  defiance  with  gain,  and  his  heart  in  all  vir- 
tues heroic." 

In  the  tract  entitled  ''  An  Apology  forSmectymnus," 
he  has  an  eulogy  on  the  Long  Parliament,  which  I 
think  it  would  be  well  for  some  Tract  Society  to  re- 
publish and  to  put  into  the  hands  of  every  Member  of 
Congress  and  Legislator,  both  as  a  specimen  of  splendid 
English  prose,  the  study  of  which  might  greatly  im- 
prove the  style,  of  some  of  our  Honorable  Representa- 


23B  Llewelyn  ioan  evans, 

tives,  and  also  as  a  description  of  what  a  legislature 
ought  to  be.  I  can  not  forbear,  however,  reproducing 
one  trait  which  Milton  ascribes  to  that  Parliament, 
which  may  God  grant  it  to  be  true  of  ours. 

'*  Having  by  a  solemn  protestation  vowed  themselves 
and  the  kingdom  anew  to  God  and  his  service,  and  by 
a  prudent  foresight  above  what  their  fathers  dreamed 
on,  prevented  the  dissolution  and  frustrating  of  their 
designs  by  an  untimely  breaking  up ;  notwithstanding 
all  the  treasonous  plots  against  them,  all  the  rumors 
either  of  rebellion  or  of  invasion,  they  have  not  been 
yet  brought  to  change  their  constant  resolution,  ever 
to  think  fearlessly  of  their  own  safeties,  and  hopefully 
of  the  commonwealth,  which  hath  gained  them  such  an 
admiration  from  all  good  men,  that  now  they  hear  it 
as  their  ordinary  surname,  to  be  saluted  the  fathers  of 
their  country,  and  sit  as  gods  among  daily  petitions 
and  public  thanks  flowing  in  upon  them.  .  .  .  The 
more  they  seek  to  humble  themselves,  the  more  does 
God  by  manifest  signs  and  testimonies  visibly  honor 
their  proceedings.  .  .  .  Wicked  men  daily  conspire 
their  hurt,  and  it  comes  to  nothing ;  rebellion  rages  in 
our  Irish  province,  but  with  miraculous  and  lossless 
victories  of  few  against  many,  is  daily  discomfited  and 
broken.  .  .  .  And  whereas  at  other  times  we  count 
it  ample  honor  when  God  vouchsafes  to  make  man  the 
instrument  and  subordinate  worker  of  his  gracious  will, 
such  acceptation  have  their  prayers  found  with  him, 
that  to  them  he  hath  been  pleased  to  make  himself  the 
agent  and  immediate  performer  of  their  desires  ;  dis- 
solving their  difficulties  when  they  are  thought  inex- 
plicable, cutting  out  ways  when  no  passage  could  be 
seen;  as  who  is  there  so . regardless  of  Divine  Provi- 
dence that  from  late  occurrences  will  not  confess?  .  .  . 
Which  I   leave  with  them  as  the  greatest  praise  that 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  239 

can  belong  to  human  nature;  not  that  we  should  think 
that  they  are  at  the  end  of  their  glorious  progress,  but 
that  they  will  go  on  to  follow  his  Almighty  leading,  who 
seems  to  have  thus  covenanted  with  them  ;  that  if  the 
will  and  the  endeavor  shall  be  theirs,  the  performance 
and  the  perfecting  shall  be  his."  It  were  something, 
were  it  not,  to  have  a  Congress  like  that  in  Washington 
just  now  ? 

Perhaps  the  most  finished,  certainly  the  best  known 
of  Milton's  prose  Treatises  is  the  "  Areopagitica ;  a 
Speech  for  the  Hberty  of  unlicensed  Printing."  The  de- 
sign of  it  he  himself  gives  as  follows  :  "  Lastly,  I  wrote 
my  Areopagitica,  in  order  to  deliver  the  press  from  the 
restraints  with  which  it  was  encumbered ;  that  the 
power  of  determining  what  was  true  and  what  was 
false,  what  ought  to  be  published  and  what  to  be  sup- 
pressed, might  no  longer  be  entrusted  to  a  few  illiterate 
and  illiberal  individuals,  who  refused  their  sanction  to 
any  work,  which  contained  views  or  sentiments  at  all 
above  the  level  of  the  vulgar  superstition." 

The  question  is  often  asked,  what  constitutes  a  Free 
State?  Milton  answers  as  follows:  ''This  is  not  the 
liberty  which  we  can  hope,  that  no  grievance  ever  should 
arise  in  the  commonwealth;  that  let  no  man  in  this 
v/orld  expect ;  but  when  complaints  are  freely  heard, 
deeply  considered,  and  speedily  reformed,  then  is  the 
utmost  bound  of  civil  liberty  attained  that  wise  men 
look  for." 

The  treatise  abounds  in  evidences  that  Milton  would 
have  made  a  very  unfit  vassal  of  Jefferson  Davis.  How 
passionately  he  loved  liberty  !  Speaking  of  the  cause  of 
''the  flowery  crop  of  knowledge  and  new  light  sprung 
up  and  yet  springing  daily"  in  the  land,  he  says:  "It 
is  the  liberty,  lords  and  commons,  which  your  own  val- 
orous and  happy  counsels  have  purchased  us;  liberty, 


240  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

which  is  the  nurse  of  all  great  wits;  this  is  that  which 
hath  rarified  and  enlightened  our  spirits  like  the  influ- 
ence of  heaven ;  this  is  that  which  hath  enfranchised, 
enlarged,  and  lifted  up  our  apprehensions  degrees  above 
themselves.  .  .  Give  me  the  liberty  to  know,  to  utter, 
and  to  argue  freely  according  to  conscience,  above  all 
liberties." 

How  noble  the  confidence  which  he  puts  in  the  power 
of  Truth!  **Let  her  and  falsehood  grapple;  who  ever 
knew  Truth  put  to  the  worse  in  a  free  and  open  encoun- 
ter?" What  is  secession  but  cowardice — want  of  faith 
in  the  might  of  the  right,  or  rather  perhaps,  the  con- 
sciousness of  falsehood  and  wrong?  If  the  rebel  States 
are  in  the  right,  if  their  cause  be  just,  if  it  be  such  as 
will  ultimately  triumph,  why  secede?  Why  skulk  out 
of  the  field  ?  Why  decline  the  gage  of  battle  with  the 
weapons  of  Truth?  "When  a  man,"  says  Milton, 
"  has  been  laboring  the  hardest  labor  in  the  deep  mines 
of  knowledge,  hath  furnished  out  his  findings  in  all  their 
equipage,  drawn  forth  his  reasons  as  it  were  a  battle 
ranged,  scattered  and  defeated  all  objections  in  his  way, 
calls  out  his  adversary  into  the  plain,  offers  him  the 
advantage  of  wind  and  sun  if  he  please,  only  that  he 
may  try  the  matter  by  dint  of  argument ;  for  his  oppo- 
nents then  to  skulk,  to  lay  ambushments,  though  it  be 
valor  enough  in  soldiership,  is  but  weakness  and  cowar- 
dice in  the  wars  of  Truth.  For  who  knows  not  that 
Truth  is  strong,  next  to  the  Almighty?" 

In  view  of  the  evidences  of  activity,  thrift,  progress 
throughout  the  North,  notwithstanding  our  difficulties, 
the  following  sentiments  are  highly  inspiriting.  "When 
the  cheerfulness  of  the  people  is  so  sprightly  up,  as 
that  it  has  not  only  wherewith  to  guard  well  its  own 
freedom  and  safety,  but  to  spare,  and  to  bestow  upon 
the  solidest  and  sublimest  points  of  controversy  and  new 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  24 1 

invention,  it  betokens  us  not  degenerated,  nor  droopin<j 
to  a  fatal  decay,  by  casting  off  the  wrinkled  skin  of 
corruption  to  outlive  these  pangs,  and  v^ax  young  again, 
entering  the  glorious  ways  of  truth  and  prosperous 
virtue,  destined  to  become  great  and  honorable  in  these 
latter  ages.  Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and 
puissant  nation  rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man  after 
sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks ;  methinks  I  see 
her  as  an  eagle"  —  and  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven  these 
words  shall  yet  be  prophetic  not  only  of  the  nation  to 
which  they  were  first  appHed,  but  of  its  offspring,  not 
then  born,  whose  emblem  is  that  very  eagle  which 
Milton  proceeds  so  magnificently  to  describe — "me- 
thinks I  seek  her  as  an  eagle  sunning  her  mighty  youth, 
and  kindling  her  undazzled  eyes  at  the  full  midday 
beam ;  purging  and  unsealing  her  long  abused  sight  at 
the  fountain  itself  of  heavenly  radiance;  while  the 
whole  noise  of  the  timorous  and  flocking  birds,  with 
those  also  that  love  the  twilight,  flutter  about  amazed 
at  what  she  means,  and  in  their  envious  gabble  would 
prognosticate  a  year  of  sects  and  schisms." 

But  while  Milton  was  thus  deahng  sturdy  blows  upon 
the  bulwarks  of  oppression,  Cromwell  and  his  Ironsides 
were  fighting  against  them  with  another  kind  of  weapons. 
The  rupture  between  the  King  and  Parliament  had  by 
this  time  resulted  in  war.  The  history  of  that  war  we 
cannot  now  follow  in  detail.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the 
historian  might  without  difficulty  trace  various  interest- 
ing analogies  between  it  and  the  Civil  War  now  raging 
in  this  land.  Substituting  the  Slave  Oligarchy  of  the 
South  for  King  Charles,  and  the  U.  S.  Government  for 
the  Parliament,  the  points  in  the  parallel  will  be  seen 
without  difficulty,  as  for  instance :  Charles  was  infat- 
uated with  the  delusion  that  he  held  his  throne  under 
the  seal  of  God;     He  sought  to  make  himself  absolute 


242  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Lord  of  the  realm,  to  consolidate  all  power  in  his  own 
hands.  While  negotiations  were  pending  between  him- 
self and  Parliament,  he  was  all  the  time  engaged  in 
preparations  for  war.  When  he  found  that  he  could 
not  make  the  Parliament  his  slave,  he  seceded  from 
London,  and  took  up  arms  against  the  nation.  When 
it  was  palpable  to  the  world  that  he  was  the  aggressor, 
he  mendaciously  charged  the  Parliament  and  People 
with  making  war  on  him.  His  arms  were  at  first  vic- 
torious. He  boasted  of  his  invincibility.  He  sneered 
at  the  armies  of  the  Commonwealth  as  mercenaries  and 
hirelings.  The  Parliamentary  army  was  composed 
mainly  of  raw  recruits,  and  its  generalship  was  at  first 
very  indifferent.  It  had  its  panics  and  disgraceful  routs. 
London  was  hastily  fortified.  There  were  Peacemen  in 
those  days,  who  groaned  over  the  unnatural  war,  and  who 
cared  more  for  purse  than  principle.  But  it  was  not  long 
before  the  Leader  whom  God  had  raised  made  his 
appearance.  Victory  after  victory  blazed  in  his  path- 
way, for  his  troopers  had  the  fear  of  God,  and  "truly," 
says  he,  "they  were  never  beaten  at  all."  After  the 
war  had  lasted  nearly  seven  years,  the  King  was  taken. 
He  was  put  on  trial  as  a  criminal,  a  traitor  to  the  nation. 
Being  found  guilty,  he  was  sentenced  to  die.  On  the 
30th  of  January,  1648-9,  he  was  beheaded  in  the  open 
street  before  Whitehall  for  having  "traitorously  and 
maliciously  imagined  and  contrived  the  enslaving  or 
destroying  of  the  nation."  "Perhaps  the  most  daring 
action  any  body  of  Men  to  be  met  with  in  history  ever 
with  clear  conscientiousness  deliberately  set  themselves 
to  do,"  says  one.  Let  our  King  Charles  beware  of  the 
doom  which  the  hand  of  Divine  Justice  has  written 
against  it,  and  which  sooner  or  later  on  Pleaven's 
appointed  day,  will  fall  on  its  neck,  fatal,  it  may  be 
swift,  as  the  stroke  of  the  Thunder's  lightning-arm. 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  243 

Hitherto  Milton  had  not  taken  a  direct  part  in  the 
discussions  concerning  civil  liberty,  because,  as  he  tells 
us,   "I  saw  that  sufficient  attention  was  paid  to  it  by 
the  magistrates ;  nor  did  I   write  anything  on  the  pre- 
rogative of  the  crown,  till  the  king,  voted  an  enemy  by 
the  parliament,  and  vanquished  in  the  field,  was  sum- 
moned before  the  tribunal  which  condemned   him   to 
lose  his  head.     But  when  at  length  some  Presbyterian 
ministers,  who  had  formerly  been  the  most  bitter  ene- 
mies to   Charles,  became  jealous  of  the  growth  of  the 
Independents,    and  of  their  ascendancy  in   the  parlia- 
ment, most  tumultuously  clamored  against  the  sentence, 
and  did  all   in   their   power  to  prevent  the  execution, 
though  they  v/ere  not  angry  so  much  on  account  of  the 
act  itself,  as  because  it  was  not  the  act  of  their  party ; 
and  when  they  dared  to  affirm,  that  the  doctrine  of  the 
Protestants,  and  of  all  the  reformed  churches,  was  ab- 
horrent to  such  an  atrocious  proceeding  against  kings, 
I  thought  that  it  became  me  to  oppose  such  a  glaring 
falsehood ;  and  accordingly  without  any  immediate  or 
personal   application  to   Charles,   I    showed  in  an    ab- 
stract consideration  of  the  question,  what  might  lawfully 
be  done  against  tyrants,  and  in  support  of  what  I  ad- 
vanced, produced  the  opinions  of  the  most  celebrated 
divines,  while  I  vehemently  inveighed  against  the  egre- 
gious  ignorance  or   effrontery  of  men,   who  professed 
better  things,  and  from  whom  better  things  might  have 
been  expected."     That  book  did  not  make  its  appear- 
ance  till  after  the  death  of  Charles,    and  was  written 
rather  to  reconcile  the  minds  of  the  people  to  the  event, 
than  to  discuss  the  legitimacy   of  that  particular   sen- 
tence, which  concerned  the  magistrates,  and  which  was 
already  executed. 

In   this  Treatise,    called  ''The  Tenure  of  Kings  and 
Magistrates,"   Mi-lton  showed  that  he  had  no  patience 


244  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

with  those  men  who  were  afraid  to  carry  out  their 
poHtical  convictions  to  their  legitimate  results,  and  to 
punish  the  royal  traitor  with  merited  death.  *' Others, 
who  have  been  fiercest  against  their  prince,  under  the 
notion  of  a  tyrant,  and  no  mean  incendiaries  of  the 
war  against  them,  when  God,  out  of  his  providence 
and  high  disposal  hath  delivered  him  into  the  hand  of 
their  brethren,  on  a  sudden  and  in  a  new  garb  of  alle- 
giance, which  their  doings  have  long  since  cancelled, 
they  plead  for  him,  pity  him,  extol  him,  protest  against 
those  that  talk  of  bringing  him  to  the  trial  of  justice, 
which  is  the  sword  of  God,  superior  to  all  mortal 
things,  in  whose  hand  soever  by  apparent  signs  his 
testified  will  is  to  put  it."  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  our 
Government  will  sometime  learn  that  truth,  and  act  on 
it. 

I  would  respectfully  recommend  the  following  to 
those  among  ourselves  who  shiver  at  the  ring  of  every 
vigorous  blow,  and  whine  about  the  unconstitutionality 
of  those  bold  decisive  measures  which  can  alone  save 
the  Constitution,  and  leave  us  a?tything  which  is  consti- 
tutional. ''Another  sort  there  is,  who  coming  in  the 
course  of  these  aftairs,  to  have  their  share  in  great 
actions  above  the  form  of  law  or  custom,  at  least  to 
give  their  voice  and  approbation,  begin  to  swerve  and 
almost  shiver  at  the  majesty  and  grandeur  of  some 
noble  deed,  as  if  they  were  newly  entered  into  a  great 
sin,  disputing  precedents,  forms  and  circumstances, 
when  the  commonwealth  nigh  perishes  for  want  of 
deeds  in  substance,  done  with  just  and  faithful  expedi- 
tion." 

There  were  not  a  few  Englishmen  who  kept  up  a 
continual  whimper  about  the  horrors  of  a  fratricidal 
war,  and  who  demanded  that  such  a  war  should  in- 
stantly cease,  or  at  least  be  prosecuted  with  the  most 


JOHN    MILTON,     THE    PATRIOT.  245 

tender  brotherly  consideration  and  love.  How  little 
sympathy  Milton  had  with  such  maundering  sentimen- 
taHsts  may  be  judged  from  the  following.  "When  fel- 
low-subjects, neighbors,  and  friends  do  one  to  another 
so  as  hostility  could  do  no  worse,  what  doth  the  law 
decree  less  against  them  than  open  enemies  and  invad- 
ers ?  Or  if  the  law  be  not  present,  or  too  weak,  what 
doth  it  warrant  us  to  less  than  single  defence  or  civil 
war  ?  And  from  that  time  forward  the  law  of  civil 
defensive  war  differs  nothing  from  the  law  of  foreign 
hostility.  Nor  is  it  distance  of  place  that  makes  en- 
mity, but  enmity  that  makes  distance.  He,  therefore, 
that  keeps  peace  with  me,  near  or  remote,  of  whatso- 
ever nation,  is  to  me,  as  far  as  all  civil  and  human 
offices,  an  Englishm.an  and  a  neighbor ;  but  if  an  Eng- 
lishman, forgetting  all  laws  human,  civil,  and  religious, 
offend  against  life  and  liberty,  to  him  offended  and  to 
the  law  in  his  behalf,  though  born  in  the  same  womb, 
he  is  no  better  than  a  Turk,  a  Saracen,  a  heathen." 
"  Lawful  war,"  he  tells  us  again,  "is  but  the  execution 
of  justice  against  them  who  refuse  law." 

In  the  month  of  March,  1649,  within  less  than  two 
months  after  the  execution  of  Charles,  Milton  was 
appointed  Latin  Secretary  to  the  Council  of  State. 
This  appointment  was  a  tribute  at  once  to  his  thorough 
mastery  of  the  Latin  language,  his  incomparable  liter- 
ary ability,  and  the  signal  services  which  he  had 
already  rendered  to  his  country.  A  fitter  choice  could 
not  have  been  made.  He  brought  to  the  discharge 
of  his  duty  wisdom,  integrity,  genius  of  the  highest 
order.  His  State  papers  have  never  been  surpassed. 
Neither  was  his  pen  limited  to  these. 

Soon  after  the  King's  death  a  book  was  published 
called  '  *  Eikon  Basilike,  Portraiture  of  his  Sacred  Ma- 
jesty in  his  Solitudes  and  Sufferings."     It  purported  to 


246  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

have  been  written  by  the  Royal  Martyr  himself,  al- 
though it  is  now  known  that  the  use  of  the  King's 
name  was  a  fraud.  *'I  was  ordered  to  answer  it," 
says  Milton,  "and  opposed  the  Ikonoklast  [Image- 
breaker]  to  his  Ikon  [Image].  I  did  not  insult  over 
fallen  majesty,  as  is  pretended.  I  only  preferred 
Queen  Truth  to  King  Charles."  The  arguments  of 
this  book  are  irresistible ;  its  invective  is  tremendous. 
No  sooner  had  he  laid  down  his  lance  after  this  en- 
counter than  he  was  summoned  again  to  enter  the  lists 
ae^ainst  one  of  the  most  learned  and  eminent  scholars 
of  the  age,  Claudius  Salmasius,  Professor  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Leyden,  who  had  been  employed  by  Charles 
II.,  then  a  fugitive  in  Holland,  to  advocate  the  cause 
of  monarchy  in  general,  and  of  Charles  I.  in  particular. 
The  Council  forthwith  ordered  :  ''That  Mr.  Milton  does 
prepare  something  in  answer  to  the  book  of  Salmasius, 
and  when  he  hath  done  it,  bring  it  to  the  Council." 
And  now  we  come  upon  one  of  the  most  touching  and 
noble  incidents  to  be  found  in  the  annals  of  Heroism. 
As  we  have  already  seen,  Milton's  eyes  were  naturally 
weak,  and  had  been  greatly  injured  in  early  youth  by 
his  protracted  midnight  studies.  At  the  age  of  42,  his 
sight  was  so  much  impaired  and  his  health  so  poor, 
that  his  physicians  forewarned  him  that  the  labors  to 
which  he  devoted  himself  would  inevitably  bring  on 
blindness.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation  the  intrepid 
Patriot  answered.  Let  blindness  come,  but  let  me  serve 
my  country.  Years  afterwards,  when  his  enemies  in- 
humanly exulted  in  his  bhndness  as  a  Divine  judgment 
for  his  sins  against  royalty,  he  wrote  the  following 
beautiful  and  touching  words.  "Since  my  enemies 
boast  that  this  affliction  is  only  a  retribution  for  the 
transgressions  of  my  pen,  I  again  invoke  the  Almighty 
to  witness,  that   I  never,  at  any  time,  v^^rote  anything 


JOHN    MILTON,     THE    PATRIOT.  24/ 

which  I  did  not  think  agreeable  to  truth,  to  justice  and 
to  piety.  [How  many,  I  wonder,  of  our  modern  poHti- 
cians  and  editors  can  make  that  declaration  ?]  This  was 
my  persuasion  then,  and  I  feel  the  same  persuasion 
now.  Nor  was  I  ever  prompted  to  such  exertions  by 
the  influence  of  ambition,  by  the  lust  of  lucre  or  of 
praise ;  it  was  only  by  the  conviction  of  duty,  and  the 
feeling  of  Patriotism,  a  disinterested  passion  for  the 
extension  of  civil  and  religious  liberty.  Thus  therefore 
when  I  was  publicly  solicited  to  write  a  reply  to  the 
defense  of  the  royal  cause,  when  I  had  to  contend  with 
the  pressure  of  sickness,  and  with  the  apprehension  of 
soon  losing  the  sight  of  my  remaining  eye,  and  when 
my  medical  attendants  clearly  announced  that  if  I  did 
engage  in  the  work,  it  would  be  irreparably  lost ;  their 
premonitions  caused  no  hesitation,  and  inspired  no  dis- 
may. I  would  not  have  listened  even  to  the  voice  of 
Esculapius  himself  from  the  shrine  of  Epidauris,  in  pre- 
ference to  the  suggestions  of  the  heavenly  monitor 
within  my  breast ;  my  resolution  was  unshaken,  though 
the  alternative  was  either  the  loss  of  my  sight,  or  the 
desertion  of  my  duty." 

The  next  year  Milton  was  totally  blind.  He  had 
sacrificed  his  sight  to  his  country.  Ah !  to  be  fasci- 
nated by  the  '*  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war,"  to  be 
aroused  by  the  trumpet  voice  of  Battle,  to  yield  to  the 
inspirations  of  a  great  national  enthusiasm  that  surges 
through  the  land  like  a  mighty  tide,  to  surrender  one- 
self to  the  wild  intoxication  of  glory,  to  have  the  lion 
in  man  waked  up  by  the  fierce  roar  of  the  cannon,  to 
rush  undaunted 

"  Into  the  jaws  of  death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  hell," 

when  the  heart  is  fire,  and  the  blood  is  flame;  that  I 


248  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

take  it  is  not  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world,  although 
I  am  far  from  saying  that  there  is  nothing  laudable  or 
grand  about  it.  But  calmly  and  deHberately  to  choose 
blindness  as  one's  portion,  to  turn  one's  back  on  a 
future  of  light,  brightness,  and  gladness,  and  instead  to 
enter  on  a  long  black  vista  of  darkness,  to  undergo 
voluntary  banishment  from  all  the  joys,  the  truths,  the 
labors  which  sight  makes  sweet,  to  render  still  more 
doubtful  than  ever  the  possibility  of  fulfilling  the  cher- 
ished hope  of  a  life,  the  opportunity  to  ''rise  to  the 
height  of  some  great  argument,"  which  "the  mind  at 
home  in  the  spacious  circuits  of  her  musing  proposed 
to  herself,  though  of  highest  hope  and  hardest  attemp- 
ting," to  do  this  solely  at  the  behest  of  ''  God's  secre- 
tary, Conscience,"  sustained  by  no  power  other  than 
that  which  springs  up  evermore  in  the  pure  and  faith- 
ful heart,  stimulated  by  no  reward  other  than  the  ap- 
probation of  God,  the  gratitude  of  one's  country,  and 
the  consciousness  of  doing  right,  which  are  indeed  the 
only  reward  a  true  man  will  care  about,  there  is  some- 
thing Divine  about  that ! 

Twenty-four  years  was  Milton  blind.  Not  once,  I 
venture  to  say,  during  all  that  period,  did  he  mur- 
mur against  his  lot.  Of  many  things  he  doubtless  did 
complain ;  and  who  can  blame  him  ?  Who  with  a 
nature  so  sensitive,  so  lofty,  so  honorable  as  his,  could 
brook  the  indignities  and  cruelties  practiced  on  him  by 
those  whose  privilege  it  was  to  respect  him,  whose  duty 
it  was  to  love  him  ?  But  his  blindness  he  cheerfully 
accepted  as  the  inevitable  condition  of  serving  his  gen- 
eration, and  how  even  then  he  might  best  honor  God, 
this  was  for  the  blind  hero  the  great  question  of  life. 
On  the  third  anniversary  of  his  blindness  he  addressed 
the  following  lines  to  his  friend  Cyriack  Skinner: 


JOHN    MILTON,     THE    PATRIOT.  249 

"  Cyriack,  this  three  years'  day,  these  eyes,  though  clear, 

To  outward  view  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 

Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot , 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 
Of  Sim,  or  moon,  or  star,  throughout  the  year, 

Or  man,  or  woman.     Yet  I  argue  not 

Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right  onward.   What  supports  me,  dost  thou  ask  ? 

The  conscience,  friend,  to  have  lost  them  overplied, 

In  liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task." 

Well  might  he  rejoice  in  the  thought  that  ''Europe 
rings  from  side  to  side  "  with  his  work,  for  the  world 
will  ring  with  it  forever. 

This  last  work,  which  cost  Milton  his  sight,  was 
written  in  Latin,  and  was  entitled  "  Defensio  pro  Pop- 
ulo  Anglicano  Contra  Claudii  Salmasii  Defensionem 
Regiam. "  It  was  a  most  triumphant  vindication  of  the 
People  of  England.  Its  trenchant  sarcasm,  slashing 
logic,  withering  vituperation  and  the  burning  eloquence  of 
words  "  winged  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage, " 
procured  for  it  a  wide  circulation  abroad  as  well  as  at  home. 

On  the  1 6th  of  December,  1653,  OHver  Cromwell 
was  installed  Lord  Protector  of  the  Commonwealth  of 
England.  Much  has  been  said  for  and  against  the  as- 
sumption of  this  dignity  by  Cromwell,  especially 
against  it.  There  are  two  facts,  which  are  to  my  mind 
a  conclusive  justification  of  it.  The  principal  fact  is 
the  condition  into  which  England  was  plunged  after 
Cromwell's  death,  and  in  which  it  remained  for  thirty 
years,  a  period  which  has  been  truly  described  as  the 
darkest  and  most  disgraceful  period  in  the  annals  of 
England.  The  other  fact  is,  that  Milton,  of  the  purity 
of  whose  patriotism,  of  the  sternness  of  whose  repub- 
licanism, of  whose  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  con- 
dition of  the  country  and  of  the  exigency  of  the  times. 


250  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

there  can  be  no  question  whatever,  was  throughout  a 
most  ardent  friend  and  supporter  of  Cromwell.  In  his 
"Second  Defense  of  the  People  of  England,"  pub- 
lished in  a  year  after  Cromwell's  elevation,  he  thus 
loftily  addresses  him:  ''We  all  willingly  yield  the 
palm  of  sovereignty  to  your  unrivalled  ability  and  vir- 
tue, except  the  few  among  us,  who  are  either  ambi- 
tious of  honors  which  they  have  not  capacity  to  sus- 
tain, or  who  envy  those  which  are  conferred  on  one 
more  worthy  than  themselves,  or  else  who  do  not  know 
that  nothing  in  the  world  is  more  pleasing  to  God, 
more  agreeable  to  reason,  more  politically  just,  or  more 
generally  useful,  than  that  the  supreme  power  should 
be  vested  in  the  best  and  wisest  men.  Such,  O  Crom- 
well, all  acknowledge  you  to  be ;  such  are  the  services 
which  you  have  rendered  as  the  leader  of  our  councils, 
the  general  of  our  armies  and  the  father  of  your 
country.  For  this  is  the  tender  appellation  by  which 
all  the  good  among  us  salute  you  from  the  very  soul. 
Other  names  you  neither  have  nor  could  endure,  and 
you  deservedly  reject  that  pomp  of  title  which  attracts 
the  gaze  and  admiration  of  the  multitude.  For  what  is 
a  title  but  a  certain  definite  mode  of  dignity?  But  ac- 
tions such  as  yours  surpass,  not  only  the  bounds  of  our 
admiration,  but  our  titles ;  and  like  the  points  of  pyra- 
mids, which  are  lost  in  the  clouds,  they  soar  above  the 
possibilities  of  titular  commendations.  .  .  .  Do  you 
then,  sir,  continue  your  course  with  the  same  un- 
rivalled magnanimity ;  it  sits  well  upon  you :  to 
you  our  country  owes  its  liberties,  nor  can  you 
sustain  a  character  at  once  more  momentous  and 
more  august  than  that  of  the  author,  the  guardian  and 
the  preserver  of  our  liberties.  .  .  .  Revere  the 
fond  expectations  which  we  cherish,  the  solicitudes 
of  your  anxious  country;    revere  the  looks  and    the 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE   PATRIOT.  25 1 

wounds  of  your  brave  companions  in  arms,  who,  under 
your  banners,  have  so  strenuously  fought  for  Hberty; 
revere  the  shades  of  those  who  perished  in  the  contest ; 
revere  also  the  opinions  and  the  hopes  which  foreign 
States  entertain  concerning  us,  who  promise  to  them- 
selves so  many  advantages  from  that  liberty  which  we 
have  so  bravely  acquired,  from  the  establishment  of 
that  new  government,  which  has  begun  to  shed  its 
splendor  on  the  world,  which,  if  it  be  suffered  to  vanish 
like  a  dream,  would  involve  us  in  the  deepest  abyss  of 
shame  ;  and  lastly,  revere  yourself;  and  after  having 
endured  so  many  sufferings  and  encountered  so  many 
perils  for  the  sake  of  Hberty,  do  not  suffer  it,  now  it  is 
obtained,  either  to  be  violated  by  yourself,  or  in  any 
one  instance  impaired  by  others.  You  can  not  be 
truly  free,  unless  we  are  free  too  ;  for  such  is  the  na- 
ture of  things,  that  he  who  intrenches  on  the  liberty  of 
others  is  the  first  to  lose  his  own  and  become  a  slave." 
This  advice,  we  .may  suppose,  was  not  lost  on  Crom- 
well, who  retained  the  blind  Patriot  as  his  Latin  Secre- 
tary and  entered  into  cordial,  personal  relations  with 
him.  Undoubtedly,  the  most  interesting  fact  in  this 
period  of  Milton's  life,  is  the  part  which  he  took  as 
Cromwell's  Secretary  in  protesting  against  the  persecu- 
tion of  the  Waldenses  in  the  valleys  of  Piedmont  by 
the  Duke  of  Savoy.  Milton  wrote  letters  in  the  Pro- 
tector's name  first  to  the  Duke,  demanding  a  cessation 
of  the  persecution,  and  restitution  for  his  poor  and  op- 
pressed subjects,  then  to  the  Potentates  of  Europe, 
bringing  the  facts  to  their  notice,  and  calling  on  them 
to  unite  with  England  in  demanding  justice.  These  are 
the  most  celebrated  of  Milton's  State  Papers,  and  they 
are  truly  masterpieces  of  their  kind.  No  one  can  read 
them  without  feeling  that  then  the  English  government 
was  actuated  by<  other  than  selfish  considerations,  and 


252  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

believed  that  in  contests  between  those  principles  of 
human  liberty  which  were  dear  to  the  hearts  of  English- 
men and  those  principles  which  make  tyrants,  there 
was  something  better  than  a  cold,  heartless  neutrality. 
As  for  example  witness  this  in  the  Letter  to  the 
Evangelic  Cities  of  Switzerland:  '*  As  for  our  part  be 
assured  that  we  are  no  less  anxious  and  solicitous  for 
your  welfare  and  prosperity  than  if  this  conflagration 
had  broken  forth  in  our  republic,  or  as  if  the  axes  of 
the  Schwitz  Canton  had  been  sharpened  for  our  necks, 
or  that  their  swords  had  been  drawn  against  our 
breasts."  Or  this  in  the  Letter  to  the  United  Prov- 
inces. After  rehearsing  the  cruelties  exercised  toward 
the  Piedmontese,  he  says:  "These  things,  with  what 
commotion  of  mind  you  heard  related,  what  a  fellow- 
feeling  of  the  calamities  of  brethren  pierced  your 
breasts,  we  readily  conjectured  from  the  depths  of  our 
sorrow,  which  certainly  is  most  heavy  and  afflictive.  For 
being  engaged  together  by  the  same  tie  of  religion,  no 
wonder  we  should  be  so  deeply  moved  with  the  same 
affections  upon  the  dreadful  and  undeserved  sufferings 
of  our  brethren."  Thus  did  England  two  centuries  ago, 
recognizing  the  obligations  of  Christian  sympathy  on 
Governments,  as  well  as  individuals,  speak  in  the  name 
of  her  Protector, 

"Great  in  council,  great  in  war, 
The  foremost  captain  of  his  age," 

And  in  the  words  of  her  great  Poet,  Patriot  and  States- 
man, glorious  John  Milton.  Verily,  two  centuries  make 
quite  a  difference  in  International  Law,  Foreign  Policies, 
and  State  Correspondence  of  Governments.  I  do  not 
wonder  that  sixty  years  ago  Wordsworth  sang : 

"Milton  !  thou  shouldstbe  living  at  this  hour; 
England  hath  need  of  thee  ;  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters;  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  2^3 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men. 

Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again, 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 

Thouhadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea; 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 

In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowhest  duties  on  herself  did  lay." 

**The  Genius  of  England,"  says  Thomas  Carlyle, 
*'no  longer  soars  sun- ward,  v/orld-defiant,  like  an  Eagle 
through  the  storms,  'mewing  her  mighty  youth,'  as 
John  Milton  saw  her  do ;  the  Genius  of  England,  much 
hke  a  greedy  Ostrich  intent  on  provender  and  a  whole 
skin  mainly,  stands  with  its  ^///rr  extremity  sun-ward." 
I  am  not  sure,  to  be  honest  about  it,  that  our  Eagle  has 
not  on  the  whole  behaved  very  much  like  an  Ostrich. 
Let  us  hope  that  both  the  Eagle  of  Albion,  and  the 
Eagle  of  Columbia,  pulling  their  heads  as  quickly  as 
possible  out  of  the  provender  bags,  will  rise  once  more 
in  harmonious  concert,  and  see  in  friendly  emulation, 
which  can  soar  nearest  the  sun. 

But  dark  and  evil  days  were  about  to  fall  on  England. 
In  the  month  of  September,  1658,  Cromwell  died. 
The  stormy  elements  which  his  strong  hand  had  held 
in  check  soon  burst  out,  and  Richard  tjie  Protector, 
proved  himself  unable  to  control  them.  The  Royalist 
party  raised  its  head  defiantly.  The  Army  and  Parlia- 
ment were  at  strife.  From  Anarchy  to  Military  Despo- 
tism, such  seemed  to  be  the  inevitable  drift  of  events. 
At  this  juncture  Milton  exerted  all  his  efforts  to  secure 
the  establishment  of  a  moderate  Republican  Common- 
wealth. To  this  end  he  wrote  first  a  letter  to  General 
Monk,  commander  of  the  army  in  Scotland,  entitled, 
*'The  present  m.eans  and  brief  delineation  of  a  Free 


254  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Commonwealth,"  and  then  a  Tract  called  "A  ready  and 
easy  way  to  establish  a  Free  Commonwealth."  The 
Republicanism  which  is  advocated  in  these  Essays  is 
not,  to  be  sure,  of  the  modern  radical  type.  It  is  how- 
ever sufficiently  pronounced  to  identify  the  author  with 
the  cause  of  popular  liberty,  as  opposed  to  the  domina- 
tion, either  of  a  tyrannical  person,  or  a  tyrannical  class, 
as  the  following  extracts  will  show :  * '  *  Go  to  the  ant, 
thou  sluggard,'  saith  Solomon,  'consider  her  ways  and 
be  wise;  which  having  no  prince,  ruler  or  lord,  pro- 
vides her  meat  in  the  summer,  and  gathers  her  food  in 
the  harvest ; '  which  evidently  shows  us  that  they  who 
think  the  nation  undone  without  a  king,  though  they 
look  grave  or  haughty,  have  not  so  much  true  spirit 
and  understanding  in  them  as  a  pismire;  neither  are 
these  diligent  creatures  hence  concluded  to  live  in  law- 
less anarchy,  or  that  commended,  but  are  set  the 
example  to  imprudent  and  ungoverned  men,  of  a  frugal 
and  selfgoverning  democracy  or  commonwealth,  safer 
and  more  thriving  in  the  joint  providence  and  counsel 
of  many  industrious  equals,  than  under  the  single  dom- 
ination of  one  imperious  lord."  '^l  doubt  not  but  all 
ingenuous  and  knowing  men  will  easily  agree  with 
me  that  a  free  commonwealth  without  single  person 
or  house  of  lords,  is  by  far  the  best  government, 
if  it  can  be  had."  **Now  is  the  opportunity,  now 
the  very  season,  wherein  we  may  obtain  a  free  com- 
monwealth, and  establish  it  forever  in  the  land,  without 
difficulty  or  much  delay.  Writs  are  sent  out  for  elec- 
tions, and  which  is  worth  observing,  in  the  name,  not 
of  any  king,  but  of  the  keepers  of  our  liberty,  to 
summon  a  free  parliament;  which  then  only  will  indeed 
be  free,  and  deserve  the  true  honor  of  that  supreme 
title,  if  they  preserve  us  a  free  people."  "Liberty  of 
conscience,  which  above  all  other  things  ought  to  be  to 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  255 

all  men  dearest  and  most  precious,  no  government  more 
inclinable  not  to  favor  only  but  to  protect  them  a  free 
commonwealth,  as  being  most  magnanimous,  most  fear- 
less and  confident  of  its  own  fair  proceedings."  ''The 
other  part  of  our  freedom  consists  in  the  civil  rights 
and  advancements-  of  every  person  according  to  his 
merit ;  the  enjoyment  of  those  never  more  certain,  and 
the  access  to  these  never  more  open,  than  in  a  free 
commonwealth. "  **  Of  all  governments  a  free  common- 
wealth aims  most  to  make  the  people  flourishing,  vir- 
tuous, noble  and  highspirited. "  "  Free  commonwealths 
have  been  ever  counted  fittest  and  properest  for  civil,  vir- 
tuous, and  industrious  nations  abounding  with  prudent 
men  worthy  to  govern  ;  monarchy  fittest  to  curb  degener- 
ate, corrupt,  idle,  proud,  luxurious  people.  If  we  desire 
to  be  of  the  former,  nothing  better  for  us,  nothing  nobler 
than  a  free  commonwealth."  These,  be  it  observed,  are 
not  the  crude  speculations  of  Milton's  youth,  they  are  the 
mature  convictions  of  his  later  years,  the  results  of  his  long 
public  experience,  embodied  in  the  last  of  his  political 
writings,  and  intended  as  a  final  appeal  to  the  nation 
against  the  anti-republican  reaction  which  was  now  set- 
ting in.  But  his  counsels  did  not  prevail.  The  Royalist 
party  triumphed.  Charles  II.  was  proclaimed  King, 
and  ascended  his  father's  throne.  Milton  was  forced  to 
conceal  himself  A  price  was  set  on  his  head.  His 
Iconoclastes  and  Defence  of  the  People  of  England  had 
the  honor  to  be  burned  by  the  common  hangman,  by 
vote  of  the  House  of  Commons.  After  remaining  four 
months  in  concealment  he  was,  through  the  interces- 
sion of  friends,  released  by  the  Act  of  Oblivion,  and 
spent  the  rest  of  his  days  in  literary  retirement. 

There  is  something  at  once  sad  and  sublime  about 
the  closing  days  of  John  Milton.  Blind,  persecuted  by 
his  enemies,  neglected  and  wronged  by  '' unkind  chil- 


256  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

dren,"  as  he  touchingly  called  them,  fallen,  as  he  tells 
us, 

"  On  evil  days  .   .  .  and  evil  tongues, 

In  darkness  and  with  dangers  compassed  round, 

And  solitude," 

Bereft  of  old  friends,  the  labors  of  a  score  of  years, 
the  best  part  of  his  lifetime,  apparently  lost,  the  com- 
monwealth which  he  had  labored  to  build,  to  sustain, 
and  to  preserve,  swept  away ;  the  monarchy,  which  he 
both  detested  and  dreaded,  restored ;  the  errors  and 
vices,  which  with  the  eye  of  an  Uriel  he  had  detected, 
which  with  the  constancy  of  an  Abdiel  he  had  resisted, 
and  which  with  the  energy  of  a  Michael  he  had  com- 
bated, invading  the  land,  and  darkening  it  with  the 
banners  of  hell,  the  England  he  so  loved  maddened 
with  the  Circean  cup,  and  abandoning  herself  to  a  life 
that  was  worse  than  death ;  his  sight  gone,  his  life-plan 
marred,  and  the  sacrifice  which  he  had  made  of  each, 
so  far  as  one  could  judge,  wasted — shall  we  not  pity  him  ? 
Yes,  but  only  while  the  tear  of  pity  remains,  for  he  tells 
us  himself,  that  now,  in  his  darkness,  as  he  **  stands 
and  waits,"    "bearing  God's  mild  yoke," 

"  His  state 
Is  kingly,  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest." 

Still,  as  years  before,  he  might  say  to  his  enemies : 
"Let  the  calumniators  of  the  divine  goodness  cease  to 
revile,  or  to  make  me  the  object  of  their  superstitious 
imaginations.  Let  them  consider  that  my  situation, 
such  as  it  is,  is  neither  an  object  of  my  shame,  or  my 
regret,  that  my  resolutions  are  too  firm  to  be  shaken, 
that  I  am  not  depressed  by  any  sense  of  the  divine 
displeasure  ;  that  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  most  mo- 
mentous periods,  I  have  had  full  experience  of  the 
Divine   favor  and  protection ;    and  that   in  the  solace 


JOHN    MILTON,    THE    PATRIOT.  257 

and  the  strength  which  have  been  infused  into  me  from 
above,  I  have  been  enabled  to  do  the  will  of  God ; 
that  I  may  oftener  think  on  what  he  has  withheld ;  that 
in  short,  I  am  unwilling  to  exchange  my  consciousness 
and  rectitude  with  that  of  any  other  person,  and  that  I 
feel  the  recollection  a  treasured  store  of  tranquillity  and 
delight.  .  .  .  My  blindness  keeps  from  my  view  only 
the  colored  surfaces  of  things,  while  it  leaves  me  at 
liberty  to  contemplate  the  beauty  and  stability  of  vir- 
tue and  of  truth.  How  many  things  are  there  besides 
which  I  would  not  willingly  see ;  how  many  which  I 
must  see  against  my  will ;  and  how  few  which  I  feel 
any  anxiety  to  see.  There  is,  as  the  apostle  has  re- 
marked, a  way  to  strength  through  weakness.  Let  me 
then  be  the  most  feeble  creature  alive,  as  long  as  that 
feebleness  serves  to  invigorate  the  energies  of  my  ra- 
tional and  immortal  spirit ;  as  long  as  in  that  obscurity 
in  which  I  am  enveloped,  the  light  of  the  divine  pres- 
ence more  clearly  shines ;  then,  in  the  proportion  as  I 
am  weak,  I  shall  be  invincibly  strong,  and  in  propor- 
tion as  I  am  blind,  I  shall  more  clearly  see.  Oh  !  that 
I  may  thus  be  perfected  by  feebleness,  and  irradiated 
by  obscurity !  And  indeed,  in  my  bhndness  I  enjoy 
in  no  inconsiderable  degree,  the  favor  of  the  Deity, 
who  regards  me  with  more  tenderness  and  compassion, 
in  proportion  as  I  am  to  behold  nothing  but  himself. 
Alas !  for  him  who  insults  me,  who  maligns,  and  mer- 
its public  execration.  For  the  divine  law  not  only 
shields  me  from  injury,  but  almost  renders  me  too 
sacred  to  attack,  not  indeed  so  much  from  the  privation 
of  my  sight,  as  from  the  overshadowing  of  those  heav- 
enly wings  which  seem  to  have  occasioned  this  obscur- 
ity, and  which,  when  occasioned,  he  is  wont  to  illumi- 
nate with  an  interior  light,  more  precious,  and  more 
pure." 


258  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Nay  indeed,  the  blind  Patriot  is  to  be  envied  rather 
than  pitied.  His  state  is  far  kinglier  than  that  of  the 
reigning  Monarch,  surrounded  by  the  miserable  vani- 
ties of  his  dissolute  court.  "The  great  Taskmaster," 
in  whose  sight  he  has  ever  sought  to  live,  does  not 
forget  his  faithful  servant  in  the  darkness  of  his  old  age. 
For  now,  as  he  resumes  the  lyre,  which  years  ago  he 
laid  aside,  he  finds  to  his  joy  that  its  strings  are  neither 
broken  nor  tuneless,  nay  rather,  that  during  the  long 
years  of  its  neglect  and  forgottenness,  God  has  kept  it 
in  his  hand,  and  now  restores  it  to  the  sightless  Bard, 
purified  in  temper  by  every  fire  through  which  it  has 
been  carried,  etherealized  in  tone  by  every  storm  in 
which  it  has  been  strained.  At  their  Lord's  bidding 
the  fair  Ideals  of  Grace  and  Truth,  of  which  he  had 
erewhile  taken  a  long  if  not  a  last  farewell,  troop  once 
more  around  him,  clothed-  in  heavenlier  loveliness, 
bearing  larger  gifts,  and  uttering  diviner  messages  than 
before.      He  prays: 

"  Celestial  Light ! 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 
Irradiate  :  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight ! " 

And  ere  the  prayer  is  made,  it  has  been  answered. 
Truly  does  he  find  of  virtue  as  he  sang  in  his  youth  : 

"  She  can  teach  thee  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime, 
Or  if  virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her." 

Truly  might  Tennyson,  mourning  the  death  of  the 
*' Great  Duke,"  with  the  examples  of  Milton,  Crom- 
well, and  the  heroes  of  the  Commonwealth  before  him, 
sing: 


JOHN    MILTON,   THE  PATRIOT.  259 

"  Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island  story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  ; 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden  roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island  story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory. 
He  that  ever  following  her  commands 
On  with  toil  of  heart,  and  knees,  and  hands, 
Through  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light,  has  won 
His  path  upward,  and  prevailed, 
Shall  find  the  topphng  crags  of  Duty  scaled. 
Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  morn  and  sun. 
Such  was  he  ;  his  work  is  done." 

On  the  1 0th  of  November,  1674,  within  one  month 
of  his  66th  birthday,  John  Milton  entered  on  his  ever- 
lasting reward :  Here,  ImmortaHty,  a  name  embalmed 
in  a  Poem  which  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die ; 
in  good  books,  which  fulfill  his  own  encomium,  which 
are  "the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master-spirit,"  em- 
balmed and  treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond 
life;  and  better  than  all  in  a  life,  which  was  as  he 
sought  to  make  it,  ''A  True  Poem:"  Yonder — a  still 
brighter  Immortality,  darkness  exchanged  for  light, 
blindness  for  sight,  an  earthly  for  a  heavenly  Common- 
wealth, a  lost  Paradise  for  a  Paradise  regained.  Look- 
ing back  over  his  glorious  career,  who  will  not  say  with 
Macaulay  in  the  closing  words  of  his  celebrated  essay  on 
Milton :  *'  Nor  do  we  envy  the  man  who  can  study 
either  the  life  or  the  writings  of  the  great  Poet  and 
Patriot,  without  aspiring  to  emulate,  not  indeed  the  sub- 
lime works  with  which  his  genius  has  enriched  our  lit- 
erature,  but  the   zeal  with   which   he  labored  for  the 


26o  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

public  good,  the  fortitude  with  which  he  endured  every 
private  calamity,  the  lofty  disdain  with  which  he  looked 
down  on  temptations  and  dangers,  the  deadly  hatred 
which  he  bore  to  bigots  and  tyrants,  and  the  faith 
which  he  so  sternly  kept  with  his  country  and  with  his 
fame." 


XI. 

THE   GENTLEMAN. 

Before  discoursing  of  a  theme  like  that  which  I  desire 
to  present  to  you  to-night,  it  would  be  advantageous  to 
ascertain  if  possible  how  great  a  homogeneousness  pre- 
vails in  regard  to  it.  Looking  at  any  subject  through 
the  atmosphere  of  social  opinion  by  which  it  is  sur- 
rounded, it  is  difficult  either  to  form  a  correct  idea  of  it, 
or  to  come  to  any  clear  mutual  understanding  in  regard 
to  it.  For  this  atmosphere  is  made  up  of  layers  of 
different  quality  and  density.  A  lives  in  one  stratum, 
B  in  another ;  both  look  at  the  same  object ;  to  the  one 
it  looms  through  a  mist,  to  the  other  it  shines  through 
a  halo.  The  air  is  full  of  mirasfes.  Where  one  sees  a 
city  with  glittering  spires  and  domes,  another  sees — a 
sandbank !  Things  present  different  associations  to 
different  minds.  Names  awaken  not  the  same  reminis- 
cences in  all,  nor  touch  the  same  chords.  Language 
has  many  more  words  than  you  will  find  in  the  lexicon, 
and  the  words  which  we  all  speak  have  definitions  in 
the  minds  of  many  which  neither  Johnson  or  Webster 
dreamed  of.  Johnson  himself  had  his  own  private 
definitions  which  he  did  not  always  think  best  to  put  in 
his  dictionary,  although  hehasdonesohalf-maliciously  in 
a  few  instances,  as  for  example  in  his  definition  of  Ex- 

(261) 


262  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

cise:  *'A  hateful  tax  levied  upon  commodities,  and 
adjudged  not  by  competent  judges  of  property,  but 
by  wretches  hired  by  those  to  whom  excise  is  paid" — 
or  his  definition  of  Pension:  "An  allowance  made  to 
anyone  without  an  equivalent.  In  England  [it  is  gen- 
erally understood  to  mean  pay  given  to  a  state  hireling 
for  treason  to  his  country" — or  his  definition  of  oats: 
"A  grain  which  in  England  is  generally  given  to  horses 
but  in  Scotland  supports  people."  A  score  of  diction- 
aries constructed  on  these  Johnsonian  principles  would 
be  a  rare  curiosity. 

Everybody,  of  course,  has  his  own  idea  and  defini- 
tion of  the  Gentleman.  Comparing  this  conception  with 
the  generic  idea  of  ''man,"  to  one  the  Gentleman  will 
be  something  more  than  a  man,  to  another  something 
less  than  a  man,  to  another  this  or  that  modification  of 
man.  Some  would  regard  the  qualification  of  the 
Gentleman  as  accidental  and  external ;  others  as  inherent 
and  internal.  Some  might  look  on  him  as  a  one-sided 
development  of  manhood,  others  as  its  coronal  develop- 
ment. One  perhaps  would  say:  "The  Gentleman  is  an 
artificial  growth,  a  hot-house  plant,  forced  into  exist- 
ence by  stimulating  agencies  and  sustained  only  by 
special  culture  and  nutriment."  Another  would  say: 
"He  is  a  rare  and  precious  plant  of  a  different  and 
higher  species,  as  far  superior  to  the  ordinary  race  as  a 
century  plant  is  to  a  thistle."  Another  would  say: 
"  He  is  but  a  more  cultivated  specimen  of  mankind,  as 
a  garden  rose  is  a  more  cultivated  specimen  of  the  rose 
that  you  will  find  in  the  wild  woods,  worthy  of  our 
regard  and  honor  as  indicating  what  all  may  and  should 
become." 

In  attempting  on  this  occasion,  not  oi  course  to  fill 
the  place  of  him  who  was  appointed  to  address  you, 
but   to  occupy  the  time  set  apart  for  these  remarks,  I 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  26} 

shall  take  for  my  subject  the  character  which  is  implied 
in  the  form  of  address  which  I  have  just  applied  to  the 
members  of  this  society. 

I  have  addressed  you  as  gentlemen  ;  my  theme  will 
be  t/ie  Gentleman ;  without  pretending  to  investigate  mi- 
nutely his  genealogy,  or  to  analyze  thoroughly  his  char- 
acter, I  shall  simply  mention  a  few  facts  of  his  history  and 
a  few  traits  of  his  character,  which  it  may  not  be  un- 
profitable for  us  to  consider. 

Even  in  republican  America,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
we  shall  find  as  great  varieties  of  opinion  on  this  subject 
as   may  be  met   with  anywhere,  although  not  perhaps 
quite  as  exaggerated.     We   have  our  gentlemen-wor- 
shippers  no  less  than   the  Old   World.      We  have  our 
aristocracy — have  we  not  ?   and  wherever  there  is  aris- 
tocracy you  will  invariably  find  flunkey  ism.     It  is  hard 
to  say  which  precedes  the  other.      At  first  blush,  you 
will  say  aristocracy,  at  the  second  flunkeyism.     If  it  be 
true  that  but  for  aristocracy  there  would  be  no  flunkey- 
ism,  it   is  just  as   true  that  but   for  flunkeyism   there 
would  be  no  aristocracy.     To  be  sure  the  qualities,  the 
instincts  which  make  aristocrats  would  exist,  but  these 
would  be  held  in  check  by  universal  manliness.     Their 
possessors  would  not  dwell  in  a  distinct  sphere, — a  Par- 
adise guarded  with  flaming  swords  not  to  be  entered 
without  its  magic  countersign  of  blood,  caste,  privilege, 
— were   it  not  for  that  groveling,   self-abasing,  self-be- 
littling spirit,    that  whining,  fawning,   cringing  disposi- 
tion, ^which   is    pardonable    in    spaniels,    but  which  is 
despicable  in  men.     Whether  My  Lord  or  the  Valet  was 
first  in  the  order  of  nature,   certain  it  is,   that  neither 
was  long  without  finding  the  other.     Pretense,  Pomp, 
Arrogance,  were  not  slow  to  claim  and  to  clothe  with 
their  livery  Obsequiousness,  Stupidity,  Servility,  and  to 
put  the  brand  ot  bondage  on  them  forever.     Now  it  is 


264  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

sufficiently  evident  that  there  are  any  number  of  men 
who  are  born  lackeys.  They  come  into  the  world  with 
collars  round  their  necks  and  they  run  about  wagging 
their  tails  and  asking,  Who  wants  me  ?  Won't  you  take 
me,  sir?  Won't  you?  The  lackey's  universe  is  not  al- 
together like  yours  or  mine.  He  acknowledges,  as  we  do, 
a  difference  between  man  and  the  brutes.  His  conception 
of  the  difference  may  not  be  very  philosophical  or  dis- 
tinct, still  it  would  strike  him  as  highly  absurd  to  clas- 
sify him  with  his  master's  horses  and  hounds. 

But  if  there  is  a  great  difference  between  man  and  the 
brute,  the  interval  between  a  man  and  a  gentleman  is 
immense.  He  himself  is  a  man.  Sir  Lionel  acknowl- 
edges that  when  he  says,  my  dog  Rover,  my  horse 
Comet,  but  my  man  William.  Yes,  but  what  of  that 
little  possessive  pronoun  ?  Oh !  that  is — in  fact  it  is 
something  to  be  proud  of  My  man  William,  says  Sir 
Lionel,  and  "  my  man  "  expands  several  inches  all  around 
with  the  sense  of  his  importance ;  for  why  ?  Sir  Lionel 
is  a  gentleman,  of  a  race  of  gentlemen,  of  gentle  name, 
of  gentle  blood,  and  William  only — a  man,  and  is  it  not 
honor  enough  to  have  a  gentleman  say,  "  My  man  ?" 
Ah  !  but  you  say  we  have  outgrown  all  that.  We  live 
in  a  Republic.  Our  Constitution  forbids.  We  have  no 
lackeys — no  valets.  Does  a  carriage  go  by  with  driver 
and  flunkey  in  full  livery  ?  It  is  a  foreign  embassador. 
My  Lord  Anonymous  or  Baron  Blank.  No !  but  that 
is  Mr.  Smith,  an  American  citizen.  Ah !  indeed,  you 
say,  and  your  nostrils  detect  a  very  perceptible  fragrance 
of  codfish  in  the  air.  You  know  something  about  Mr. 
Smith.  You  have  some  acquaintance  with  his  pedi- 
gree. It  is  not  like  that  of  the  Scotch  Laird  who  was 
"a  penniless  laird  in  a  lang  pedigree."  Mr.  Smith  has 
pennies,  but  his  pedigree  is  very  short.  No !  we  can 
not  abide  any  aping  of  aristocracy  in  this  free  demo- 


THE    GENTLEMAN.  265 

cratic  country.  Every  man  is  a  king  and  the  equal  of 
every  other, — if  he  is  of  the  orthodox  color.  Yet  I 
am  not  sure  that  because  we  have  no  liveries,  we  have 
no  lackeys.  I  am  not  sure  that  because  the  Constitu- 
tution  has  put  an  end  to  the  titled  orders  of  nobility 
that  it  has  put  an  end  to  the  fawning  mood  of  syco- 
phants, valets  and  vassals.  I  am  not  sure  that  because 
his  Royal  Highness,  Jefferson  I.,  Lord  Mason,  Viscount 
Slidell,  Baron  Breckenridge  and  Sir  Robert  Toombs 
have  not  yet  cared  to  assume  the  titles  which  they 
covet,  that  their  minions  are  any  the  less  willing  to 
"let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp  and  crook 
the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee."  The  difference  be- 
tween us  and  the  people  of  Europe  is,  that  whereas 
there  they  put  their  lackeys  on  their  carriage  boxes 
when  they  ride  out  and  behind  their  chairs  when  they 
dine,  here  we  give  them  seats  in  Congress  and  we  have 
been  known  to  board  them  at  great  expense  to  the 
public  at  the  White  House.  Aristocracy  and  flunkey- 
ism,  I  say,  go  together ;  and  Cotton  lords,  as  well  as 
others,  find  their  flunkeys  ready  made  ;  and  further  I 
say,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  contemptible  meniahty 
and  servility  of  Northern  flunkeys,  slaves  in  everything 
but  name,  this  gigantic  RebeUion  of  Southern  gentle- 
men would  never  have  taken  place.  So  much  for  the 
lackey's  estimate  of  the  gentleman.  The  gentleman  is 
his  divinity.  As  for  himself,  he  is  only  a  man  and  not 
his  own  at  that. 

Again  you  will  find  a  considerable  number  who  look 
on  the  gentleman  as  differently  organized  from  them- 
selves. He  is  not  exactly  above  them,  nor  below  them, 
but  different,  unlike.  He  is  of  another  disposition, 
another  temperament,  another  organization.  He  has 
ways  which  they  have  not,  manners  which  they  cannot 
acquire,  a  carriage  which  they  cannot  sustain,  a  demeanor 


266  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

which  is  foreign  to  them.  His  gentlemanHness  is  a 
pecuHar  gift,  natural,  or  easily  acquired  by  him.  Every- 
body cannot  attain  to  it.  Like  a  commanding  form,  a 
handsome  face,  a  musical  voice,  it  is  a  fortunate  inheri- 
tance which  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  favored  few.  It  would 
be  a  pretty  sight  if  all  possessed  the  graces  and  accom- 
plishments of  a  gentleman,  but  there  is  no  use  repin- 
ing— all  were  not  made  alike.  Says  one:  "I  was  not 
meant  for  a  model  gentleman,  I  am  too  clumsy — too 
awkward — forever  putting  my  foot  into  it.  The  fact  is 
it  was  never  intended  that  I  should  pick  my  way  among 
eggs  without  breaking  them.  God  has  made  me  to  be 
pioneer — to  push  my  way  across  untrodden  deserts — 
through  unbroken  forests,  and  over  rocky  mountains. 
There  I  can  tramp  on  fearlessly,  heedless  of  eggshells  and 
soft  toes."  Says  another:  **  Mine  is  not  the  charming 
elegance  of  a  knight  of  the  carpet,  who  can  dance  his  min- 
uet with  the  dainty  tread  of  an  Ariel  and  murmur  his  flat- 
tering compliments  with  the  persuasive  voice  of  a  Zephyr, 
always  saying  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time,  and  do- 
ing the  right  thing  in  the  right  place,  submitting  grace- 
fully to  the  inflictions,  crosses,  and  despotism  of  society. 
I  can't  listen  to  old  Dr.  Bore  as  though  he  were  the  most 
original  and  delightful  fellow  in  the  world  and  relieve 
myself  of  him  before  he  is  half  through  with  such  grace 
that  he  never  suspects  the  truth,  and  goes  away  with  a 
better  opinion  of  me  than  he  ever  had  before,  saying, 
'That  young  Thompson  is  a  most  remarkable  and  prom- 
ising youth.'  I  cannot  conceal  my  weariness, and  pres- 
ently I  begin  to  fidget  and  in  sheer  desperation  break 
away  from  him  most  unceremoniously,  leaving  him  to  say 
'  That  young  fellow  Thompson  has  very  little  brains  ;  he  is 
a  shallow,  conceited,  empty  pated  fop,  that  is  what  he  is!  ' 
I  can't  entertain  Miss  Viola  Vapid  until  she  begins  to 
think  that  she  is  really  interesting,  and  that  Mr.  Thomp- 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  26/ 

son  is  a  very  elegant  gentleman.  I  can't  toss  the 
shuttle  of  nonsense  back  and  forth.  After  discussing 
the  weather,  the  last  lecture,  the  last  concert,  the  last 
wedding  and  the  last  death,  the  case  becomes  very- 
dreary.  I  begin  to  wriggle  and  squirm,  to  hum  and 
to  haw,  to  look  up  and  look  down,  and  to  look  all 
round,  to  find  a  thousand  and  one  uses  for  my  pocket- 
handkerchief  —  invaluable  consoler  of  the  afflicted ; 
delightful  relief  not  only  of  catarrhs  of  the  nose,  blush- 
ing cheeks  and  moist  brows,  but  of  mental  blushes  and 
intellectual  perspirations !  Blessed  be  the  man  who 
invented  sleep,  said  Sancho  Panza.  Blessed  be  the  man 
who  invented  pocket-handkerchiefs,  say  I.  But  even 
this  last  refuge  of  the  unfortunate  fails  with  Miss  Viola. 
I  cannot  play  the  gentleman  to  her,  and  when  I  have 
torn  myself  away  she  sets  me  down  as  a  stupid  bore, 
or  an  ungentlemanly  wretch.  No  sooner  do  I  try  to 
launch  myself  out  in  anything  powerful  than  down  I 
come  with  a  ridiculous  crash.  If  I  attempt  a  compli- 
ment, ten  to  one  it  is  a  perfect  failure.  If  I  attempt 
a  joke,  everybody  looks  solemn  and  somebody  looks 
offended ;  and  if  in  my  dismay  I  try  to  mend  the  mat- 
ter, I  invariably  make  it  worse.  No!  no!  my  fate  is 
evidently  not  to  play  the  gentleman,  as  according  to  the 
great  moral  showman  of  the  present  century,  the  forte 
of  George  Washington  was  not  to  have  any  of  the  public 
men  of  our  day  resemble  him  to  any  alarming  extent." 
There  are  not  wanting  those  who  look  down  on  the 
gentleman  as  something  beneath  them,  who  would  scorn 
to  bear  the  name.  It  is  to  their  mind  synonymous  with 
pride,  disdain,  affectation,  insolence,  indolence,  effemi- 
nacy, usurpation.  I  thank  heaven,  says  one,  that  I  am 
not  a  gentleman,  I  am  above  that.  I  glory  in  being  a 
man.  When  God  proceeded  to  form  a  being  in  his 
own  image,  he.  did  not  say,   ''Let  us  make  a  gentle- 


268  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

man,"  but  "Let  us  make  a  man."  The  gentleman  is 
the  Devil's  handiwork.  He  is  the  fruit  of  the  fall.  Had 
man  remained  in  Paradise  the  thing  would  have  been 
unknown.  Man  and  Woman  !  no  other  names  would 
have  been  needed.  It  was  only  after  ages  of  degener- 
acy that  the  Gentleman  and  the  Lady  were  invented. 
Who  repeats  with  infinite  gusto — 

"  When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span, 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman  ?" 

'^For  my  part,"  continues  our  worthy  friend,  **I 
am  an  original  democrat  of  the  Adam  and  Eve  stripe. 
I  am  in  favor  of  going  back  to  first  principles.  I  think 
we  had  better  restore  the  old  regime  and  banish  these 
modern  shams  to  the  primeval  shades.  Gentleman, 
forsooth!    An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God." 

"  Ye  see  yon  birkie  ca'd  a  laird 

Wha  struts  and  stares  and  a'  that, 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  feet 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that 

His  ribbon,  star  and  a'  that, 
The  man  o'  independent  might 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 
A  prince  can  make  a  titled  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke  and  a'  that, 
But  an  honest  man's  above  his  might 

Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that. 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that 

Their  dignities  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense  and  pride  o'  worth 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that." 

"  Now  that's  what  I  call  good  poetry,  good  philoso- 
phy, good  politics  and  good  sense,"  says  our  enthusi- 
astic democrat,  and  I  don't  know  that  we  should  quar- 
rel with  him  on  that  score. 

It  seems  at  first  a  pity  that  the  primitive  simplicity  of 
thought  and  language  should  be  so  much  broken  up  as 
it  is,   that   the  pure  ray  of  white   passing  through  the 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  269 

prism  of  human  history  should  be  refracted  into  so 
many  different  colored  rays.  Our  ideas  and  our  words 
have,  in  consequence,  become  partial,  onesided.  Very 
many  terms  carry  with  them  only  a  fraction  of  their 
original  significance,  and  we  have  been  under  the  neces- 
sity of  borrowing,  or  inventing,  or  remaking  other 
words  to  represent  that  which  has  been  lost.  Language 
abounds  in  half-words  and  quarter-words,  which  repre- 
sent only  one-half  or  one-quarter  of  their  first  value. 
The  intellectual  currency  of  the  world  has  expanded  so 
much  and  become  so  inflated,  that  the  market  value  of 
its  notes  is  often  very  much  below  their  face  value. 
There  has  been  a  great  demand  for  small  change  to 
represent  our  partial  ideas  of  things  and  there  has  been 
necessarily  a  largely  increased  issue  to  meet  the  demand. 
We  have  been  reduced  even  to  such  straits  that  we  are 
sometimes  glad  to  pass  an  intellectual  dollar  for  a  dime. 
Take  the  word  Honor:  "One  of  the  most  valuable 
pieces  of  currenny  ever  coined  in  Truth's  mint.  Worth 
all  that  is  sacred  in  the  soul."  Yet  what  a  bubble  is 
that  which  it  often  represents!  Heroism!  One  of  the 
highest  certificates  ever  issued  on  Heaven's  treasury ! 
A  regular  ^50,000  certificate!  The  equivalent  of  in- 
vincible strength,  heaven  born  enthusiasm.  Divine  self- 
sacrificing  love !  And  who  has  not  seen  it  pass  for  pot- 
house valor,  for  the  thick-hidedness  and  thick-headed- 
ness  which  will  stand  an  hour's  vigorous  pummeling,  or 
as  I  saw  it  elegantly  expressed  the  other  day  in  a  hand 
bill  advertising  a  sparring  exhibition — a  Lecture  on 
heads.  And  yet  how  cheaply  you  can  sometimes  buy 
it!  But  after  all,  has  not  this  expansion  of  our  intel- 
lectual currency,  this  multiplication  of  terms  to  ex- 
press ourincomplete  conceptions,  its  advantages  ?  Does 
not  one  supplement  what  is  lacking  in  the  other?  Are 
they  not  fragments  of  the  dreams  of  a   lost  Paradise 


2/0  LLEWELYN    10 AN    EVANS. 

which  haunts  humanity,  which  we  may  to  some  extent 
piece  together  into  a  vision  of  Paradise  Regained? 
Virtue,  Manhood,  Purity,  Goodness,  MoraHty,  Integ- 
rity, Honor,  Nobleness,  Holiness,  Love,  they  all  mean 
the  same.  The  golden  age  of  humanity,  whether  past 
or  future,  lies  bound  up  in  each  one  of  them  ;  to  lay  hold 
upon  either  is  to  lay  hold  upon  all :  each  is  a  gate 
opening  into  the  Palace  of  the  Beautiful,  and  if  we  look 
attentively,  first  at  this  and  then  at  the  other,  we  shall 
find  it  the  same.  Yet  do  we  not  need  them  all  and  a 
great  many  more  ?  Coming  up  out  of  the  wilderness, 
as  we  do,  by  devious  paths,  now  from  this  side  and 
now  from  that,  is  it  not  well  that  there  should  be  en- 
trances on  all  sides,  lest  in  blundering  around  to  find  the 
one  gate  we  should  miss  our  way  and  be  lost  ?  Of  these 
which  I  have  named  and  of  others  which  I  might  name, 
Manhood  means  all  the  rest.  But  if  we  had  no  other 
goal  presented  to  us,  or  rather  if  the  goal  was  presented 
to  us  in  no  other  form  than  Manhood,  how  many  of  you 
would  reach  it  ?     What  is  manhood  ? 

Now  let  us  take  the  three  following  terms  and 
consider  their  relative  claims:  Man,  Democrat,  Gentle- 
man. In  their  primary,  unperverted  sense  all  three 
mean  the  same.  Precisely.  They  are  exactly  co-or- 
dinate and  co-extensive.  Each  includes  the  others. 
Neither  excludes  the  rest.  Man  means  Gentleman ; 
Democrat.  Democrat  means  Man  ;  Gentleman.  Gentle- 
man means  Democrat;  Man.  Adam,  taking  him  as 
expressive  of  the  original  idea  of  humanity  in  its  crea- 
tion, was  all  three.  We  say,  Adam  was  to  be  a  man. 
What  do  we  mean  ?  That  he  was  to  be  a  revealer  of 
Divinity.  God  manifesting  Himself  in  created,  soul  and 
body.  Infinity  shining  through  the  finites.  Heaven 
walking  on  Earth.  He  was  also  to  be  a  Democrat.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  I  use  the  word  in  its  secondary 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  I'J  \ 

moral  sense,  not  literally  or  politically.  He  was  to  be 
a  Democrat.  What  does  that  mean  ?  It  means  that  he 
was  to  assert  the  rights  and  prerogatives  of  his  man- 
hood against  any  and  every  effort  to  curtail  them.  He 
was  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  the  Divinity — of  the 
God  within  him — against  any  and  every  attempt  to  insult 
it.  And  this  I  say  whether  Adam  had  a  white  or  a 
black  skin,  or  whether,  as  some  say,  there  was  a  black 
as  well  as  a  white  Adam ;  altho',  as  Thomas  Corwin 
once  said,  it  is  very  strange  if  the  ethnological  and 
social  theories  of  some  politicians  and  divines  are  cor- 
rect, that  the  Bible  does  not  mention  that  when  God 
created  Adam  and  Eve,  He  created  a  black  Adam  and 
Eve  to  wait  on  them,  to  work  for  them,  and  to  cook 
for  them,  the  black  Adam  to  handle  the  spade  lest 
Gentleman  Adam's  lily-white  fingers  should  be  soiled, 
and  the  black  Eve  to  comb  Lady  Eve's  hair — the  most 
important  part,  it  may  be  presumed,  of  the  toilet  of 
Eden — thus  maintaining  both  in  that  dole e  far  niente, 
that  sweet  do-nothingism,  which  is  some  folks'  beau- 
ideal  of  Paradise.  Heaven  save  the  mark !  But  the 
idea  of  Democracy  is  involved  in  the  very  idea  of  man- 
hood. When  God  sent  man  into  the  world  he  sent  him 
with  democratic  ideas  inwrought  into  his  very  being. 
Whenever  another  should  appear,  and  in  the  pride  of  a 
fancied  superiority,  should  say  to  him :  By  the  right  of  the 
stronger  thou  art  mine ;  thou  must  think,  speak,  work, 
and  live  only  as  I  bid  or  permit  thee — God  put  in  man 
a  sleeping  thunderbolt  of  a  No !  which  at  the  first  touch 
of  wrong  offered  to  the  God-like  within  was  to  wake  up 
and  leap  forth  in  living  flame  to  strike  down  the 
oppressor  and  make  a  free  path  for  his  manhood  to  God. 
But  we  say  still  further,  Adam  was  to  be  a  gentle- 
man. What  was  that  ?  Essentially  the  same  as  man 
and  democrat.     To    be   a  gentleman  was  to   maintain, 


2/2  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

inviolate  and  unsullied,  the  prerogatives  of  his  man- 
hood ;  to  demean  himself  worthily  of  his  high  lineage ; 
to  keep  the  escutcheon  of  his  nobility  without  a  blot ; 
especially  to  keep  himself  from  self-degradation ;  to 
maintain  at  its  height  the  inward  standard  of  purity,  honor, 
courage,  magnanimity,  truth,  benevolence,  to  betray 
these  never!— ^neither  to  temptation  nor  forces  from 
without,  nor  to  weakness  nor  selfishness  from  within. 
This  was  what  God  meant  man  to  be  in  making  him  a 
gentleman — to  be  gentle,  noble,  brave,  true,  guileless, 
honorable,  disinterested,  pure,  godlike,  to  be  all  this 
as  against  the  Devil,  as  against  self  You  see  accord- 
ingly there  is  no  essential  difference  between  democrat 
and  gentleman.  One  is  the  obverse  of  the  other.  The 
Democrat  is  man  preaching  against  the  limitations  which 
bar  his  freedom,  flinging  away  the  gyves  which  shackled 
his  progress.  The  Gentleman  is  man  cultivating  the 
area  of  liberty  which  the  democratic  force  has  con- 
quered, and  filling  it  with  order,  sweetness,  and  beauty. 
The  Democrat  is  man  declaring  his  independence.  The 
gentleman  is  man  taking  and  fulfilling  the  oath  of  alle- 
giance to  the  Divine  Constitution  and  Laws.  The 
Democrat  is  man  asserting  his  claims  to  himself.  The 
Gentleman  is  man  vindicating  his  worthiness  to  be  his 
own  master.  The  Democrat  is  a  Gentleman  protesting 
against  wrong.  The  Gentleman  is  the  Democrat  real- 
izing his  nobler  aspirations.  The  former  is  man  saying 
to  every  false  pretender,  to  every  harsh  oppressor,  *'I 
will  not  have  thee  to  reign  over  me."  The  latter  is 
man  saying  to  Right,  Thou  art  my  King  !  and  to 
Beauty,  Thou  art  my  Queen  !  and  to  Truth,  Thou  art 
my  I^iegc  !  and  to  Honor,  Thou  art  my  Mistress  !  and  to 
Duty,  Thou  art  my  Commander  !  Obeying  you  I  also 
become  a  King.  For  to  be  a  Gentleman  is  to  be  a 
King.     Is  not  the  King  the  first  Gentleman  in  the  land? 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  273 

So  at  least  says  Theory.  So  it  has  been  in  the  pal- 
mier days  of  royalty.  So  it  was  in  the  age  of  David 
the  Hebrew ;  so  in  the  age  of  Philip  of  Macedon  ;  so  in 
the  days  of  Titus  the  Roman ;  so  in  the  times  of  Alfred 
the  Saxon  ;  so  in  the  days  of  Charlemagne  the  Frank. 
The  converse  is  true  yet  in  republic  and  in  monarchy, 
the  first  Gentleman  of  the  land  is  King.  Whether  he 
wears  a  crown  or  not,  whether  or  no  royal  blood  runs 
in  his  veins,  he  is  King.  Yea  !  every  true  gentleman  is 
King.  What  is  his  Kingdom  ?  Himself  and  the  empire 
of  all  that  is  noble,  generous,  true,  angelic,  godlike. 
Here  then  we  arrive  at  the  paradox :  the  true  Democrat 
is  the  most  Kingly  of  all  personages.  The  motto  of 
democracy  is  not  Down  with  Kings,  but  Up  with 
Kings !  Not  Down  with  Noblemen,  but  Up  with 
Noblemen  !  Let  all  be  Noblemen !  Let  every  man  be 
King !  And  no  one  accomplishes  the  true  democratic 
idea  who  does  not  work  out  his  democracy  into  gentle- 
manhood,  noblemanhood,  royalty,  The  Gentleman  is 
the  accomplishment  of  the  Democrat.  One  is  not  per- 
fect without  the  other.  Without  freedom  and  inde- 
pendence no  one  can  be  a  Gentleman ;  no  one  can  be 
free  without  gentility  of  soul.  Manhood  is  the  blend- 
ing, the  harmony  of  both,  like  perfect  music  set  to 
noble  words.  There  is  no  incompatibihty  whatever 
between  democracy  and  gentlemanhood,  no  more  than 
in  a  beautiful  song,  music  and  poetry  are  discordant. 
To  be  a  democrat  is  not  to  be  a  boor  ;  to  be  a  gentle- 
man is  not  to  be  a  snob.  The  Chevalier  Bayard  would 
have  been  none  the  less  '*  the  flower  of  Europe  for  his 
chivalry,"  the  Knight  without  fear  and  without  re- 
proach, with  the  principles  of  a  Jefferson.  Tom  Payne 
would  have  been  just  as  good  a  Democrat,  had  he  the 
manners  and  breeding  of  a  Raleigh,  which  he  had  not. 
What  better  proof  of  this  than  the  character  of  George 


274  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Washington,  the  Gentleman-Democrat?  "While  the 
army  was  encamped  at  Morristown,"  says  Irving,  **  he 
one  day  attended  a  religious  meeting,  when  Divine 
service  was  to  be  held  in  the  open  air.  A  chair  had 
been  set  out  for  his  use.  Just  before  service  com- 
menced, a  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms  approached. 
Washington  immediately  arose,  placed  her  in  the  chair 
which  had  been  assigned  to  him,  and  remained  stand- 
ing during  the  entire  service."  Don't  you  suppose 
that  the  verdict  of  that  woman  was,  General  Washing- 
ton is  a  Gentleman?  "Is  it  possible.  General,  that 
you  take  off  your  hat  to  a  negro  ?  "  "I  will  not  let  a 
negro  outdo  me  in  politeness,  sir."  The  answer  was 
hardly  worthy  of  the  deed,  but  it  was  good  enough  for 
the  question.  Do  you  say  these  incidents  prove  that 
he  was  a  gentleman  ?  Certainly,  and  they  prove  also 
that  he  was  a  democrat.  Had  he  not  been  so  thorough 
a  democrat,  he  would  not  have  been  so  perfect  a  gen- 
tleman. Down  at  the  foundation  of  every  true  gen- 
tleman's life,  be  he  democrat  in  creed  or  not,  you  will 
find  this — a  deep,  holy,  and  indestructible  reverence  for 
man,  and  for  all  which  makes  man  sacred  in  the  sight 
of  God,  for  all  which  constitutes  in  him  the  image  of 
his  Maker.  He  who  will  despise,  insult,  outrage  tJiat, 
I  care  not  what  he  may  call  himself,  is  at  heart  neither 
democrat  nor  gentleman.  He  may  be  a  Christian, 
some  say, — Credat  Judaeus  Appelles,  non  ego  ! 

The  old  Greeks  were  wont  to  call  the  Gentleman 
xaXoxaya06(;y  the  man  xalo^  xat  dyadoi;,  beautiful  and 
good.  His  exterior,  so  thought  the  Greeks,  his  looks, 
words,  performances,  shine  with  a  loveliness  which  wins 
all ;  his  heart  gushes  forth  with  a  tenderness,  a  good- 
ness, a  fullness  of  sympathy,  truth  and  love  which  sat- 
isfy all  whom  he  draws  to  himself  Among  the  Romans 
the  Gentleman  was  the  vir  Jioncstas,  the  honorable  man, 


THE    GENTLEMAN.  275 

worthy  of  reverence  and  trust ;  vir  nobiliSy  the  man  well 
known,  conspicuous  by  his  dignity,  his  power,  his 
virtues,  his  rank — Saul  overtopping  all  others  from  his 
shoulders  upward.  Ingemms  or  liberalise  the  well  born, 
free  born,  exempt  from  all  taint  of  villainage  or  bondage, 
whose  right  to  himself  no  one  can  question ;  one  of  the 
opiimates,  originally  the  best  men  in  the  state,  the  elite 
of  the  land,  its  choice  ones.  Horace  calls  him,  "homo 
factus  ad  unguem, "  the  man  polished  with  the  nail,  like 
the  model  of  clay,  the  last  finishing  touches  to  which 
were  given  by  the  statuary's  finger  nail,  hence  the 
polished,  perfectly  finished,  exquisitely  molded  man,  to 
whom  no  other  touch  may  be  added.  More  commonly, 
as  with  the  English  world,  he  is  the  vir  generos7is,  the 
man  of  birth,  of  race,  of  family,  the  well  born.  Among 
the  old  Germans,  gentlemen  were  sometimes  called  ©iite 
^Rainier,  good  men,  men  of  whom  it  is  enough  to  say 
they  filled  up  the  measure  of  the  German  adjective  gut. 
Among  the  old  fashioned  French,  the  gentleman  was  le 
pnid'  homme,  the  prudent,  experienced  man,  who  had 
been  tried,  found  true,  approved.  The  modern  gentle- 
man of  France  is  Vhonime  de  bon  ton,  the  man  of  good 
tone,  pitched  in  the  right  key,  the  man  of  fashion; 
Vhomme  de  bo7i  societe,  the  man  of  good  connections, 
of  genteel  associations,  of  high  caste;  VJiomine  comine 
il  faiit,  the  man  as  he  should  be,  as  he  must  be,  the 
man  of  respectability,  of  faultless  propriety,  who  wor- 
ships at  the  shrine  of  good  society  and  whose  oblations 
are  unblemished.  '  The  English  word  Gentleman,  traces 
its  descent  through  the  French  gentil  homme  from  the 
Latin  gentilis,  whose  qualities  Cicero  gives  as  follows: 
I.  That  he  should  bear  the  family  name.  2.  That  he 
should  be  descended  from  ingenui,  i.  e.,  from  free  born 
respectable  parents.  3.  That  not  one  of  his  ancestors 
should  ever  have  been  a  slave.    4.  That  he  should  never 


2/6  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

have  lost  his  head,  i.  e.,  never  have  been  deprived  of 
his  civil  rights,  which  to  the  Roman  citizen  was  just  as 
bad  as  having  his  head  cut  off.  Thus  we  see  that  when  the 
world  was  young,  gentleman  was  free-man.  The  word 
was  very  nearly  synonymous  with  citizen.  The  origin 
of  the  term  justifies  me,  if  nothing  else  did,  in  insist- 
ing so  strenuously  on  the  intimate  alliance  between 
freedom  under  its  more  modern  name  of  Democracy 
and  the  condition  of  gentleman.  Whenever  you  carry 
the  condition  of  the  one,  you  carry  also  the  condition 
of  the  other.  The  old  Roman  idea,  reduced  to  its 
purity,  is  very  near  the  truth,  there  is  but  one  genuine 
aristocracy,  that  of  liberty.  But  this  beautiful  germ 
was  very  soon  crushed  and  buried  under  the  accumulat- 
ing heaps  of  corruption.  With  the  increase  of  wealth, 
luxury,  power,  military  and  political,  concentrating 
themselves  first  in  the  hands  of  the  leaders  of  the  state 
and  then  in  their  families,  came  the  formulation  of  the 
narrower  and  impure  aristocracies  of  Rome,  which 
merging  into  or  assuming  the  names  of  the  families 
descended  from  the  Patres — the  Fathers — constituted 
ere  long  the  nobility,  the  patricians,  while  the  rest  of 
the  populace,  massed  together  in  one  group,  were  con- 
temptuously called  the  Plebs,  the  crowd,  the  multitude, 
common  folks,  the  vulgar.  Feudalism  did  yet  more  to 
confirm  the  separation  and  to  widen  the  breach  between 
Patrician  and  Plebeian,  between  Gentleman  and  Churl, 
until  presently  it  became  a  universally  accepted  maxim 
that  the  two  orders  had  existed  by  Divine  appointment 
from  the  beginning,  ever  since  the  time  of  the  sons  of 
Adam,  as  Dame  Juliana  Berners  has  quaintly  expressed 
it  in  her  treatise  on  coat-armory:  **Cain  became  a 
Churl  from  the  curse  of  God,  and  Seth  a  Gentleman 
from  his  father's  and  mother's  blessing."  Another  old 
writer  goes   back   one   step   even   beyond    the    Dame: 


THE    GENTLEMAN.  277 

"Moreover  for  that  It  might  be  knowen,  that  even  anon 
after  the  creation  of  Adam,  there  was  gentleness  and 
ungentleness,  you  shall  understand  that  the  secod  man 
that  was  born,  was  a  Getlema,  whose  name  was  Abell. 
I  saye  a  Gentleman  both  of  vertue  and  lignage,  with 
wose  sacrifice  God  was  muche  pleased.  Hys  brother 
Cain  was  Ungentle,  for  he  offered  God  the  worst  of  his 
fruites." 

It  redounds  greatly  to  the  honor  of  those  who  in  by- 
gone days  were  called  ''gentle  "  that  they  so  bore  the 
name  as  to  give  it  a  new  and  noble  meaning.  For  the 
word  no  longer  suggests  the  fact  of  parentage  and  lin- 
eage, but  the  nobler  fact  of  character.  Instead  of  stand- 
ing for  the  physical  accident  of  birth,  it  stands  for  a 
moral  quality  of  soul.  It  is  no  longer  gentle  blood, 
but  a  gentle  spirit.  All  honor  to  that  glorious  line  of 
men,  who  by  their  virtues,  their  affability,  their  mild- 
ness, courtesy,  urbanity,  refinement,  raised  the  attri- 
butes of  the  class  to  which  they  belonged,  and  crowned 
it  with  imperishable  moral  grandeur,  making  it  no 
longer  express  whence  they  were,  but  what  they  were. 
All  honor  to  the  men  whose  characters  converted  the 
words  gentle  and  noble,  so  that  the  world  has  well  nigh 
forgotten  that  they  ever  meant  anything  else  than  sweet- 
ness of  disposition  and  grandeur  of  soul.  There  are 
names  which  have  been  dragged  down  by  the  degrada- 
dation  of  those  who  bore  them.  Savage  once  meant 
nothing  more  than  woodman — a  dweller  in  the  forests. 
Villain  was  at  first  no  worse  than  peasant.  Churl,  the 
opposite  of  gentleman,  was  only  a  strong  man.  Be  as- 
sured that  there  was  real  worth  in  these  gentles  and  no- 
bles who  raised  those  words  up  into  the  meaning  which 
they  now  have. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  this  result  was 
greatly  promote(J  by  the  rise  and  growth  of  chivalry. 


278  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

The  spirit  of  chivalry  was  essentially  and  wholly  the 
spirit  of  gentility.  The  Knight  was  the  model  gentle- 
man of  his  age.  His  education  was  conducted  expressly 
with  reference  to  the  production  of  this  character.  First, 
the  boy  became  page  to  some  baron  or  knight,  with 
whom  he  was  instructed  in  the  accomplishments  of  his 
future  vocation.  As  Ben  Jonson  tells  us  this  was  ac- 
counted— 

"  The  noblest  way 
Of  breeding  up  our  youth  in  letters,  arms, 
Fair  mien,  discourses,  civil  exercises, 
And  all  the  blazon  of  a  gentleman. 
Where  can  he  learn  to  vault,  to  ride,  to  fence, 
To  bear  his  body  gracefully,  to  speak 
His  language  purer,  or  to  turn  his  mind 
Or  manners  more  to  the  harmony  of  nature 
Than  in  those  nurseries  of  nobility?" 

There  the  youth  became  a  squire,  perfecting  his  edu- 
cation as  an  armed  attendant  on  the  knight  or  noble- 
man to  whom  he  was  attached.  Let  Chaucer  describe 
for  us  a  model  squire : 

"  Singing  he  was  or  floating  all  the  day, 
He  was  as  freshe  as  is  the  month  of  May. 
Short  was  his  gown  with  sleeves  long  and  wide, 
Wei  coude  he  sitte  an  hors  an  fayre  ride. 
He  coude  songes  make  and  well  indite, 
Juste,  and  eke  dance,  and  wel  pourtraie  and  write." 

Having  passed  the  due  period  of  probation  as  squire, 
he  was  admitted  to  the  highest  degree,  that  of  knight. 
On  the  eve  of  battle  or  on  the  field  of  war,  the  squire 
was  led  to  his  prince  or  general,  before  whom  he 
kneeled  down,  while  his  two  sponsors,  who  avouched 
his  worthiness  of  honor,  buckled  on  his  gilded  spurs  and 
belted  him  with  his  sword.  After  this  the  person  who 
dubbed  him  gave  him  the  accolade,  a  sHght  blow  on 


THE    GENTLEMAN.  279 

the  neck  with  the  flat  of  the  sword,  pronouncing  the 
formula:  "I  dub  thee  knight  in  the  name  of  God  and 
St.  Michael  (or  in  the  name  of  the  Trinity).  Be  faithful, 
bold  and  fortunate."  The  new  made  knight,  eager  for 
renown,  would  plunge  into  the  fight,  when,  if  he  distin- 
guished himself,  he  was  said  to  win  his  spurs.  But  the 
investiture  of  a  knight  at  some  great  ecclesiastical  or 
royal  festival  was  still  more  significant.  The  candidate 
then  watched  all  night  in  a  church  or  chapel,  preparing 
for  the  honor  which  awaited  him  by  vigils,  fasting  and 
prayer.  The  squire's  brown  frock  was  laid  aside  and 
after  bathing  the  person,  to  typify  the  spiritual  purifica- 
tion which  the  true  knight  must  undergo,  he  put  on  a 
richer  garb.  He  was  then  equipped  and  armed  with 
his  knight's  weapons  ;  and  as  each  piece  of  honor  was 
put  on,  curious  allegories  v/ere  recited  and  quaint  paral- 
lels drawn  between  the  weapons  of  his  temporal  and 
spiritual  warfare.  For  remember  that  the  ordinance  of 
knighthood  was  in  its  first  institution  a  religious,  semi- 
monastic  order,  and  the  knight  was  a  soldier  of  the 
church  as  well  as  a  soldier  of  his  king.  He  was  then 
conducted  in  solemn  procession  to  the  church  or  chapel, 
where  the  ceremony  of  his  investiture  was  to  be  per- 
formed, high  mass  was  said,  the  king  gave  him  the 
accolade,  the  prelate  of  highest  rank  present,  took  from 
the  altar  his  sword,  which  had  previously  been  laid 
there,  his  spurs  were  fastened  on  by  some  high  born 
lady,  he  took  the  oath  of  loyalty  to  God,  the  King  and 
the  Ladies,  was  led  out  of  the  church  with  music  and 
acclamations,  mounted  his  horse,  cavorted  with  him, 
plying  his  spurs  and  couching  his  lance  as  if  eager  to 
vindicate  the  prowess  of  his  strong  right  arm,  which  he 
generally  had  the  opportunity  of  doing  in  a  grand 
tournament  with  which  the  festival  closed.  In  the  ex- 
pulsion of  a  knight  from  the  order,  a  very  serious  affair, 


28o  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

indeed,  in  those  days,  the  same  religious  element  ap- 
peared. His  spurs  were  cut  off  close  to  his  heels  with 
a  cook's  cleaver.  His  arms  were  baffled  and  reversed 
by  the  common  hangman.  His  belt  was  cut  to  pieces 
and  his  sword  broken.  He  was  placed  on  a  hurdle  and 
covered  with  a  pall,  and  amid  the  chanting  of  a  funeral 
service  and  the  tolling  of  the  death-bell,  he  was  sent 
either  to  his  grave  or  back  into  the  herd  of  serfs  as  a 
man  dead  to  knightly  honor.  And  the  man  who  has 
lost  his  honor,  is  he  any  better  than  dead  ?  Would  it 
not  be  better  if  he  were  dead  ?  When  now  we  remem- 
ber that  in  the  earHer  and  better  days  of  chivalry  these 
ceremonies  were  not  empty  ecclesiastical  pageants,  but 
solemn  realities,  that  the  founders  and  first  representa- 
tives of  that  chivalry,  Gerard,  Godfrey,  Baldwin,  Ray- 
mond, Tancred,  were  men  of  deep  and  earnest  piety, 
according  to  the  light  they  had,  and  fully  consecrated 
themselves  to  the  ends  of  their  orders,  need  we  wonder 
that  the  name  and  character  of  gentleman  were  ex- 
alted to  that  pitch  of  veneration  and  affection  with 
which  they  were  regarded.  Gibbon  can  not  deny  him- 
self a  sneer  at  the  religious  character  of  the  knightly  or- 
ders, yet  he  must  have  known  that  but  for  that,  he  could 
not  have  said  of  the  knight,  that  "he  devoted  himself 
to  speak  the  truth,  to  maintain  the  right,  to  protect  the 
distressed,  to  practice  courtesy,  a  virtue  less  familiar  to 
the  ancients,  to  pursue  the  infidels,  to  despise  the  allure- 
ments of  ease  and  safety,  and  to  vindicate  in  every  per- 
ilous adventure  the  honor  of  his  character."  He  still 
further  speaks  of  chivalry:  "The  benefits  of  this  insti- 
tution to  refine  the  temper  of  barbarians  and  to  infuse 
some  principles  of  faith,  justice  and  humanity,  were 
strongly  felt.  The  asperity  of  national  prejudice  was 
softened,  and  the  comDmnity  of  rcligio7i  a7id  arms  spread 
a  similar  color  and  generous  emulation  over  the  face  of 


THE    GENTLEMAN.  28 1 

Christendom."  Undoubtedly  chivalry  underwent  a  sad 
degeneracy  in  its  later  days;  but  as  a  higher  develop- 
ment of  the  ideal  of  gentlemanhood  and  as  a  potent  in- 
spiration to  the  culture  of  that  ideal,  its  significance  is 
great  and  permanent. 

The  qualities  of  courtesy,  truth,  kindness,  clung  to 
the  ideal  of  the  Knight,  even  in  the  decay  of  chivalry, 
as  we  may  see  from  the  Morte  d'  Arthur  in  the  eulogy 
passed  on  Launcelot  du  Lake,  by  his  brother.  Sir  Ector, 
when  after  a  seven  years'  search  he  found  him  dead. 
"Ah!  Sir  Launcelot,"  said  he,  **thou  were  head  of  all 
Christian  Knights!  And  now  I  dare  say,"  said  Sir 
Ector,  "that.  Sir  Launcelot,  there  thou  liest,  thou 
were  never  matched  of  none  earthly  Knight's  hands; 
and  thou  were  the  curtiest  Knight  that  ever  beare  shield ; 
and  thou  were  the  truest  friend  to  thy  lover  that  ever 
bestrood  horse ;  and  thou  were  the  truest  lover  of  a 
sinful  man,  that  ever  loved  woman ;  and  thou  were  the 
kindest  man  that  ever  strooke  with  sword;  and  thou 
were  the  goodliest  person  that  ever  came  among  presse 
of  knights;  and  thou  were  the  meekest  man  and  the 
gentlest  that  ever  eate  in  hall  among  ladies;  and  thou 
were  the  sternest  Knight  to  thy  mortal  foe  that  ever 
put  speare  in  rest."  So  Sir  John  Froissart  describes 
Gaston  de  Foix  as  one,  who  "loved  that  which  ought 
to  be  loved,  and  hated  that  which  ought  to  be  hated. 
.  .  .  He  said  many  orisons  every  day ;  he  gave  five 
florins  in  small  monies  at  his  gate  to  poor  folks  for  the 
love  of  God ;  he  was  large  and  courteous  in  gifts.  He 
could  right  well  take  when  it  parteyned  to  him  and 
deliver  again  when  he  ought.  .  .  .  He  was  of  good 
easy  acquaintance  with  every  man,  and  amorously 
would  speak  to  them." 

"  The  spirit  of  chivalry,"  says  Hallam,   "  left  behind 
it  a  more  valuable  successor."   The  character  of  Knight 


282  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

gradually  subsided  in  that  of  Gentleman,  and  the  one 
distinguishes  European  society  in  the  Sixteenth  and 
Seventeenth  Centuries  as  much  as  the  other  did  in  the 
preceding  ages.  A  jealous  sense  of  honor,  less  romantic 
but  equally  elevated,  a  ceremonious  gallantry  and  po- 
Hteness,  a  strictness  in  devotional  observances,  and 
feeling  of  independence  upon  a  sovereign  for  the  dig- 
nity it  gave,  a  sympathy  for  martial  honor,  the  more 
subdued  by  civil  habits,  are  the  lineaments  which  prove 
an  indisputable  descent."  The  transition  of  which 
Hallam  here  speaks  is  most  pronounced  in  the  age  of 
Elizabeth.  That  age  may  be  appropriately  denomi- 
nated as,  par  e^niiience,  the  age  of  Gentlemen.  This 
fact  was  largely  due  to  the  character  and  influence  of 
England's  Maiden  Queen,  the  crowned  gentlewoman 
who  then  ruled,  who  having  married  her  realm,  refused 
a  husband.  And  so  the  gentlemen  of  England  found 
in  her  a  mistress,  to  whom  they  might  and  did  each 
and  all  vow  their  knightly  allegiance  and  dedicate  their 
trenchant  swords  and  devote  their  purest  chivalric 
love.  It  was  the  age  of  the  stately  Leicester,  the  pru- 
dent Burleigh,  the  dextrous  Walsingham,  the  imperi- 
ous Oxford,  the  elegant  Sackville,  the  all  accomplished 
Sidney,  of  Essex,  ''the  ornament  of  the  Court  and  of 
the  Camp,"  (I  quote  Macaulay)  ''the  model  of  chiv- 
alry, the  munificent  patron  of  genius,  whom  great  vir- 
tues, great  courage,  great  talents,  the  favor  of  his  sov- 
ereign, the  love  of  his  countrymen,  all  that  seemed  to 
insure  a  happy  and  glorious  life  led  to  an  early  and  an 
ignominious  death;"  of  Raleigh,  "the  soldier" — again 
I  quote  Macaulay — "the  sailor,  the  scholar,  the  cour- 
tier, the  orator,  the  poet,  the  historian,  the  philoso- 
pher, sometimes  reviewing  the  Queen's  guards,  some- 
times giving  chase  to  a  Spanish  galleon,  then  answering 
the  chiefs  of  the  country  party  in  the  House  of  Com- 


THE  GENTLEMAN.  283 

mons,  then  again  murmuring  one  of  his  sweet  love 
songs  too  near  the  ears  of  one  of  the  Queen's  maids  of 
honor,  and  soon  after,  poring  over  the  Talmud  or  col- 
lating Polybius  with  Livy. "  It  was  the  age  of  rare 
Ben  Johnson,  one  of  nature's  noblemen,  if  he  was  once 
a  bricklayer,  of  Shakespeare  the  creator  of  so  many 
gentlemen,  of  Spencer,  gentle  Colin  Clout,  whom 
everybody  loved,  the  poet  of  chivalry,  of  gentleman- 
hood,  after  its  most  exalted,  most  spiritual  types.  If 
you  would  know  what  the  True  Gentleman  is,  read  and 
study  the  Faery  Queen,  its  legends  of  Holinesse,  Tem- 
perance, Chastity,  Friendship,  Justice,   Courtesie. 

The  Gentleman  of  Elizabeth's  era,  the  embodiment 
of  Spencerian  virtues,  is  doubtless  a  noble  improvement 
on  the  Knight  of  Chivalry.  For  although  the  catalogue 
of  virtues  of  each  is  the  same,  these  in  the  progress  of 
society,  and  especially  in  the  grand  moral  illumination 
which  flooded  the  world  through  the  Protestant  Refor- 
mation, had  acquired  a  higher  interpretation.  The 
Elizabethan  Gentleman  had  been  elevated  into  a  loftier 
sphere  of  manhood.  He  was  a  poet,  not  a  framer  of 
love  ditties  and  of  martial  lays  simply,  but  a  true  seer  of 
the  Beautiful,  a  worshiper  of  that  Soul-Beauty,  that 
Heavenly  Beauty,  which  revealed  itself  to  Spencer. 

"What  time  this  world's  great  workmaister  did  cast 
To  make  all  things  such  as  we  now  behold, 
It  seems  that  he  before  his  eyes  had  plast 
A  goodly  patterne,  to  whose  perfect  mould 
He  fashioned  them  as  comely  as  he  could, 
That  now  so  fair  and  seemely  they  appeare 
As  nought  may  be  amended  any  wheare." 

"  The  meanes  therefore  which  unto  us  is  lent 
God  to  behold,  is  on  his  workes  to  looke. 
Which  he  hath  made  in  beauty  excellent 
And  in  the  same,  as  in  a  trasen  booke, 


284  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

To  read  enregistred  in  every  nooke 

His  goodness,  which  his  beauty  doth  declare, 

For  all  that's  good  is  beautifull  and  faire." 

He  was  in  sympathy  with  every  movement  toward 
the  emancipation  of  mind,  and  the  elevation  of  science 
and  art.  In  philology  a  Bacon,  in  poetry  a  Spencer,  in 
manners  a  Sidney,  in  arms  an  Essex,  in  gentle  culture 
a  Raleigh,  each  shows  us  degrees  of  attainment  as  far 
above  the  old  chivalry  as  that  was  above  the  older 
barbarism.  He  was  not  a  mere  courtier,  although  in  all 
the  annals  of  court  exploits  there  is  to  be  found  noth- 
ing more  exquisite  in  its  way  than  Raleigh  stripping  off 
his  rich  cloak  from  his  shoulders  and  laying  it  on  the 
ground,  that  the  Queen  might  step  over  the  mud  with- 
out soiling  her  feet.  But  the  faultless  courtier  was  that 
and  far  more.  He  carried  within  him  a  soul  filled  with 
loyalty  to  the  Right  and  zeal  for  Truth.  He  was  will- 
ing to  hazard  his  all  for  the  honor  of  his  Queen,  the 
integrity  of  his  cause,  the  triumph  of  his  faith.  No 
Knight  of  Malta  ever  rode  forth  more  eagerly  to  fight 
the  infidel  Paynim,  than  did  he  to  fight  the  great 
Trinity  of  Evil  which  Elizabeth's  Knights  must  fight  to 
the  death,  the  Pope,  the  Spaniard  and  the  Devil. 
Religion  was  not  with  him,  as  with  the  old  Crusaders, 
a  blind  semi-superstitious  impulse,  or  a  wild-fire  enthu- 
siasm, however  noble  and  fervent ;  it  was  an  intelligent 
belief,  a  glowing  earnest  conviction,  commingling  of 
light  with  fire.  Hear  how  a  gentleman  of  that  olden 
time  speaks:  ''There  is  a  foolish  and  a  wretched  pride 
wherewith  men  being  transported,  can  ill  endure  to 
ascribe  unto  God  the  merit  of  those  actions  in  which  it 
hath  pleased  him  to  use  their  own  Industry,  courage  or 
foresight.  Therefore  it  is  constantly  seen  that  they 
who  entering  into  Battel  are  careful  to  pray  for  aid  from 
Heaven  with  due  acknowledgment  of  his  power  who  is 


THE    GENTLEMAN.  285 

the  giver  of  victory,  when  the  field  is  won  do  vaunt 
of  their  own  exploits.  .  .  .  Every  one  striving  to  magnifie 
himself  while  all  forget  God  as  one  that  had  not  been 
present  in  the  action.  .  .  .  Yet  this  is  true  that  as  he 
that  findeth  better  success  than  he  did,  or  in  seas  not 
expected,  is  deeply  bound  to  acknowledge  God  the 
author  of  his  happiness,  so  He  whose  meer  Wisdom 
and  Labor  hath  brought  things  to  a  prosperous  issue, 
is  doubly  bound  to  show  himself  thankful  both  for  the 
Victory  and  for  those  Vertues  by  which  the  Victory  was 
gotten.  And  indeed  so  far  from  weakness  is  the  nature 
of  such  thanksgiving,  that  it  may  well  be  called  the 
height  of  magnanimity,  no  Vertue  being  so  truly  Hero- 
ical  as  that  by  which  the  spirit  of  Man  advanceth  itself 
with  confidence  of  acceptation  into  the  love  of  God. 
In  which  sense  it  is  a  brave  speech  that  Evander  in 
Virgil  useth,  none  but  a  Christian  being  capable  of  the 
admonition : 

"Aude  hospes  contemnere  opes,  et  te  quoque  dignum 
Finge  Deo." 

Do  you  know  who  spoke  these  noble  words?  It  was 
our  Knight  of  Malta,  the  same  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  who 
performed  that  act  of  inimitable  courtesy  to  his  Queen, 
and  he  is  a  type,  one  of  the  highest  sort,  to  be  sure,  but 
still  a  type  of  the  Gentleman  of  England,  in  the  days 
of  good  Queen  Bess. 

We  pass  now  from  the  Golden  Age  of  Gentleman- 
hood  to  its  Iron  Age.  Under  the  Stuarts  the  world  wit- 
nessed a  chaotic  confusion  of  names  and  things,  of  moral 
principles  and  civil  relations,  from  which  it  has  scarcely 
yet  recovered.  Ever  since  the  accession  of  James  I., 
England  had  been  ripening  for  revolution.  On  the  one 
side  the  people  under  the  impetus  given  them  by  the 
Sixteenth    Century   Reformation  were    moving  toward 


2S6  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

Freedom,  Constitutional  Right,  Personal  Independence, 
Mental  Enlightenment,  Moral  Power,  toward  the  broad- 
ening and  brightening  future.  On  the  other  hand  the 
Court  clinging  with  all  its  might  to  the  Old,  binding 
itself  to  the  decaying  pillars  of  Absolutism  and  Semi- 
Popery,  if  not  Popery  itself,  sought  not  only  to  resist, 
but  to  stay  the  current  which  now  seethed  and  foamed 
angrily,  the  Rapids  above  the  Falls.  On  the  former 
side  was  arrayed  the  Progressive  Force  of  England,  its 
vital  Protestantism,  its  latent  and  open  Republicanism, 
its  sturdy  independent  Yeomanry.  On  the  other  side 
was  arrayed  its  Conservative  Force,  its  half-dead  Semi- 
Papist  Protestantism,  its  oligarchic  Feudalism,  its  timid 
Old  Fogyism,  its  mean  spirited  Lackeyism,  in  a  word 
its  Anti-Protestantism.  It  is  one  of  the  historical  falla- 
cies current  in  some  circles,  that  in  that  great  struggle 
which  culminated  in  a  Puritan  Commonwealth,  the 
gentry  of  England  stood  on  one  side  and  the  Puritans 
on  the  other.  It  was  the  Cavalier  against  the  Round- 
head, we  are  sometimes  told  in  a  tone  which  indicates 
the  Cavalier  to  be  the  embodiment  of  all  that  is  noble, 
chivalrous,  gentlemanly,  liberal,  brave  ;  the  Roundhead 
to  be  the  embodiment  of  whatever  is  narrow,  bigoted, 
vulgar,  unwilling,  mercenary,  fanatical,  hypocritical. 
Any  such  affirmation  or  insinuation,  (for  there  are  those 
who  will  insinuate  all  that,  without  daring  openly  to 
assert  it),  has  its  origin  either  in  unprincipled  malignity 
or  in  intense  ignorance.  In  opposition  to  it  I  affirm, 
and  if  time  permitted,  each  affirmation  could  be  sus- 
tained by  the  most  direct  and  abundant  evidence  :  First, 
that  while  it  may  be  granted  that  counted  by  heads 
simply,  the  greater  number  of  the  English  gentry 
belonged  to  the  Cavalier  party,  a  large  and  influential 
minority,  not  much  inferior  in  number  either,  belonged 
to  the   Puritan  party.      Next,  that  the  Puritan   gentry 


THE    GENTLEMAN.  28/ 

of  England,  Including  those  who  sympathized  and  co- 
operated with  these  Puritans  in  their  general  aims,  with- 
out being  particularly  identified  with  them,  while  they 
were  the  equals  of  the  Royalists,  in  good  breeding,  in 
chivalry,  In  aristocratic  privileges  and  accomplishments, 
were,  taken  as  a  whole,  greatly  their  superiors  in  Intelli- 
gence, in  character,  in  sympathy  with  whatsoever  is 
humane  and  progressive.  To  those  who  know  anything 
about  history  it  will  be  enough  to  mention  the  names 
of  the  Earl  of  Essex,  the  Earl  of  Manchester,  Sir  John 
Elliot,  Lord  Fairfax,  Sir  Henry  Vane,  Algernon  Syd- 
ney, John  Hampden. 

Next,  that  while  there  was  in  the  Cavalier  ranks 
much  of  true  nobility,  there  was  at  the  same  time  in 
the  aggregate  more  bigotry,  more  fanaticism,  and  that 
of  a  far  lower  sort,  more  cant,  if  that  word  be  used  in 
its  proper  sense,  more  ignorance,  vastly  more  mer- 
cinariness,  and  incomparably  more  immorality,  than  in 
the  Puritan  ranks,  and  finally  that,  taking  each  of  the 
two  parties  in  a  body,  turning  our  attention  away  from 
local  and  transient  peculiarities  to  that  which  was  essen- 
tial and  permanent,  looking  at  the  centre  of  each  and 
not  at  its  extremes ;  comparing  their  leaders,  their  mov- 
ing spirits,  their  ruling  ideas,  the  brain  power  and  heart 
power  enlisted  on  each  side,  weighing  In  the  scales  of 
historical  justice,  the  contribution  made  by  each  side  to 
the  knowlege,  the  art,  the  intellectual,  the  political  and 
moral  progress  of  the  world,  it  will  be  found  that  three- 
fourths  of  all  that  the  world  has  gained  from  that  Sev- 
enteenth Century  struggle  was  the  gift  of  the  Puritan, 
not  of  the  Cavalier. 

"  Great  men  have  been  among  us  ;  hands  that  penned 
And  tongues  that  uttered  wisdom,  better  none ; 
The  later  Sidney,  Marvel,  Harrington, 
Young  Vane,  and  others  who  called  Milton  friend. 


288  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

These  Moralists  could  act  and  comprehend, 
They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put  on  : 
Taught  us  how  rightfully  a  nation  shone 
In  splendor;  what  strength  was  that  would  not  bend 
But  in  magnanimous  meekness." 

Wordsworth,  when  he  wrote  that,  was  no  Puritan  in 
the  technical  sense,  but  every  one  of  the  great  names 
he  mentions  as  the  glory  of  England,  was  according  to 
the  spirit,  if  not  according  to  the  letter,  a  Puritan. 
Every  one  of  them  was  a  pronounced  Anti-Cavalier. 
The  great  poet  but  echoes  the  sentiment  of  every  in- 
telligent and  candid  historian,  Puritan  or  no  Puritan,  of 
Carlisle,  Arnold,  Kingsley,  Macaulay,  Froude,  Bancroft, 
Guizot.  Ask  Carlyle  the  Iconoclast  and  Pantheist,  the 
worshipper  of  Goethe,  who  says  that  Literature  is  his 
church.  He  surely  is  no  Puritan,  yet  he  will  tell  you  : 
"  In  conscious  act  or  in  clear  tendency,  the  far  greater 
part  of  the  serious  Thought  and  Manhood  of  England, 
has  declared  itself  Puritan."  And  speaking  of  King 
Charles'  Parliaments  he  will  say:  ''All  these  Parlia- 
ments grow  strangely  in  Puritanism.  .  .  .  The  nobility 
and  gentry  of  England  were  then  a  very  strange  body 
of  men.  The  English  squire  of  the  Seventeenth  Cen- 
tury clearly  appears  to  have  believed  in  God,  not  as  a 
figure  of  speech,  but  as  a  very  fact,  very  awful  to  the 
heart  of  the  English  squire.  He  wore  his  Bible  Doc- 
trine around  him,  says  one,  as  an  English  Squire  wears 
his  short  belt ;  went  abroad  with  it  nothing  doubting." 
Ask  Dr.  Arnold  the  scholar,  the  historian,  the  Father 
of  the  Broad  Church,  so  called  ;  he  will  tell  you  that, 
while  "in  the  government  of  the  church  the  Puritans 
had  done  nothing,  changes  of  the  greatest  import  had 
been  wrought  in  the  state,  not  in  its  forms  indeed,  but 
in  its  spirit."  Among  the  changes,  he  enumerates  the 
most  important  civil  reforms  of  the   last  two  centuries. 


THE    GENTLEMAN. 


:Sg 


Ask  Chas.  Kingsley  the  disciple  of  Arnold,  preacher, 
poet,  novelist,  historian,  and  apostle  of  muscular  Chris- 
tianity.    You  may  call  him  a  Puritan  or  not,  just  as  you 
please.      What  does   he  say  ?     ' '  We  hold  the  average 
Puritan,  nobleman,   gentleman,  merchant,  or  farmer,  to 
have   been    a   picturesque   and  poetical   man,  a  man  of 
higher  imagination  and  deeper  feeling  than  the  average 
Court  poets,    and  a  man    of   sound    taste   also."     Ask 
Macaulay,   the  brilliant    essayist,    the   eloquent   parlia- 
mentarian, the  cultivated  scholar,  the  graphic  historian, 
the  accomplished  man  of  the  world.     What  does  he  tell 
us?     "Those   who  roused    the    people   to  resist,   who 
directed  their  measures  through  a  long  series  of  event- 
ful years,   who  formed    out  of  the   most    unpromising 
materials,  the   finest  army  that  Europe   had  ever  seen, 
who   trampled  down    King,    Church,   and  Aristocracy, 
who  in  the  short  intervals  of  domestic   sedition   made 
the  name  of  England  terrible   to    every  nation   on  the 
face   of   the   earth,  were    no   vulgar   fanatics.      Most  of 
their  absurdities   were    mere   exterior   badges   like  the 
signs  of  free  masonry  or  the  dresses  of  friars.      We  re- 
gret that  these  badges  were  not  more  attractive.      We 
regret  that  a  body  to  whose  courage  and   talents  man- 
kind has  owed  inestimable  obligations,  had  not  the  lofty 
elegance  which  distinguished  some  of  the  adherents  of 
Charles  I.,  or  the  easy  good   breeding   for   which   the 
court  of  Charles   II.  was   celebrated.      But  if  we  must 
make  our   choice  we   shall,  like   Bassanio   in  the  play, 
turn  from  the  specious  caskets  which   contain  only  the 
Death's  head  and  the  Fool's  head,  and  fix  our  choice  on 
the  plain   leaden   chest   which    conceals  the  treasure." 
Elsewhere,  in  speaking  of  the  Puritans,  he  calls  them 
"the   deliverers  of  England,  the  founders  of  the  great 
American   Commonwealth."       By  what   standard   will 
you  judge  the  gentleman?     By  that  of  Dress?     In  this 


290  LLEWELYN    10 AN    EVANS. 

matter  Mr.  Kingsley  will  tell  you:  ''The  Puritan  tri- 
umph has  been  complete.  Even  their  worst  enemies 
have  come  over  to  their  side,  and  the  whirligig  of  Time 
has  brought  in  his  revenges.  Their  canons  of  taste 
have  become  those  of  all  England,  and  High  Churchmen 
who  still  call  them  Roundheads  and  cropped  ears,  go 
about  rounder  headed  and  closer  cropt  than  they  ever 
went.  They  held  it  more  rational  to  cut  the  hair  to  a 
comfortable  length  than  to  wear  effeminate  curls  down 
the  back.  And  we  cut  ours  much  shorter  than  they 
ever  did.  They  held  with  the  Spaniards,  then  the  finest 
gentlemen  in  the  world,  that  sad,  i.  e.,  dark  colors, 
above  all  black,  were  the  fittest  for  stately  and  earnest 
gentlemen.  We  all,  from  the  Tractarian  to  the  Any- 
thingarian,  are  exactly  of  the  same  opinion.  They  held 
that  lace,  perfumes  and  jewelry  on  a  man  were  marks 
of  a  womanly  foppishness  and  vanity,  and  so  hold  the 
finest  gentlemen  in  Europe  now.  In  applying  the  same 
canon  to  the  dress  of  woman  they  were  wrong.  As  in 
other  matters  they  had  hold  of  one  pole  of  a  double 
truth  and  erred  in  applying  it  exclusively  to  all  cases. 
But  there  are  two  things  to  be  said  for  them  ;  first, 
that  the  dress  of  that  day  was  palpably  an  incentive  to 
the  profligacy  of  that  day,  and  therefore  had  to  be 
protested  against ;  in  these  more  moral  times,  ornaments 
and  fashions  may  be  harmlessly  used  which  then  could 
not  be  used  without  harm  ;  and  next,  it  is  undeniable 
that  sober  dressing  is  more  and  more  becoming  the 
fashion  among  well-bred  women,  and  among  them  too 
the  Puritan's  canons  are  gaining  ground." 

Shall  we  test  the  gentleman  by  his  manners?  Here 
also  the  Puritan  has  conquered,  so  far  at  least,  that  if 
you  compare  the  manners  of  the  self-styled  gentleman 
of  that   day  with  those  of   to-day,  you  will  find   that: 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  2gl 

"  the  Puritan  and  not  the  Cavaher  conception  of  what  a 
gentleman  should  be,  is  the  one  that  prevails  now." 

Shall  we  make  genius,  the  power  of  imagination  and 
the  love  of  the  beautiful   the  test  ?    Macaulay  has  said 
that  during  the  latter  half  of  the  seventeenth  century 
there  were  only  two  great  creative  minds  in  England. 
One  of  these  minds  produced  Paradise  Lost,  the  other 
the  Pilgrim's   Progress.      Both,  I   need  not   say,    were 
Puritans.      Even  Cromwell,  the  barbarian,  as  Hume  calls 
him,    patronized   Waller,    employed   Milton  and   saved 
Raphael's  cartoons  to  the  British  Nation  when  Charles 
I.'s  pictures  were  sold.     For  every  fraction  of  the  old 
cavalier  which  enters  into  the  real  gentleman  of  to-day, 
you  will  find  four  fractions  of  the  Puritan,  when  there 
was  any  antagonism  between  the  two.     1  am  far  from 
saying  or  supposing  that  the  Puritan  is  the  highest  type 
of  a  gentleman  which  the  world  has  seen  or  ever  will 
see.     I  do  not  think  he  is  equal  to  the  perfect  gentle- 
man of  to-day.     I  hope  we  shall  go  on  improving  on 
the  type  to  the  end  of  time.      I    desire  simply  to  pro- 
test, through  the  testimonies  of  competent  authorities, 
whom  you   must  and  do  respect,  against  the  shallow, 
ignorant  and  silly  sneers  of  flunkeyism  in  our  own  day 
and  in  our  own  land,  which  exposes  its  shame  by  re- 
flecting the  ignorance  and  echoing  the  sneers  of  a  spu- 
rious cavalier  aristocracy  of  which  it  is  the  slave,  now, 
it  is  to  be  hoped,  in  a  fair  v/ay  to  extinction.   Spurious, 
I  say,  for  the  chivalry  of  the  Royalist  party  of  England 
was  as  much  more  respectable  than  the  bastard  negro 
driving  which  steals  its  name,  as  that  was  surpassed  by 
the  chivalry  of  Spencer's  Knight  of  the  Red  Cross.      I 
do  not  call  the  Puritan  a  model  man,  but  I  do  say  that 
but  for  him  our  model  man  of  to-day  would  have  been 
a  very  sorry  specimen  of  manhood.      He  was  a  good 
way  beneath  .our  beau  ideal  of  the  gentleman,  but  had 


292  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

it  not  been  for  him,  our  beau  ideal  might  have  been  a 
thing  for  earth  to  blush  at,  for  heaven  to  weep  over. 
He  may  have  lacked  the  outward  graces  and  amenities 
which  harmoniously  bespeak  the  inward  gentleness  and 
grace,  he  may  have  lacked  the  right  culture  of  some 
of  the  aesthetic  principles  which  constitute  the  spiritual 
economy  t)f  the  perfect  gentleman,  but  he  did  not  lack 
those  which  were  absolutely  indispensable:  honor,  truth, 
self-respect,  self-control,  loyalty,  purity,  love.  Whenever 
then,  you  hear  some  babbling  demagogue  prating  about 
the  narrow-minded,  canting,  fanatical,  mean,  unchival- 
rous,  sniffling  tribe  of  the  Puritans,  whether  he  mean  the 
Puritans  of  Old  England  in  her  grand  Revolutionary 
struggle,  which  secured  her  freedom  forever,  or  the 
Puritans  of  New  England,  worthy  descendants  of  noble 
sires,  who  brought  here  the  manly  independence,  the 
free  principles,  the  moral  worth  and  the  true  gentle- 
manhood  of  their  fathers  and  brethren  beyond  the  seas, 
and  who  by  means  of  this  laid  the  foundation  of  a  no- 
bler commonwealth  than  that  which  their  sires  estab- 
lished, but  failed  to  sustain,  set  him  down  for  a  con- 
temptible flunkey,  destitute  of  soul  or  of  principle,  or 
of  both,  bestow  on  him  your  utter  contempt  and  say 
to  him  that  which  will  burn  down  to  the  core  of  his 
flunkey  soul:  ''Ape  of  the  Dead  Seas!  peering 
asquint  into  the  Holy  of  Holies,  let  us  have  done  with 
thy  babblings,  thou  canst  not  fathom  it." 

Isaac  Barrow  says  that  the  properties  of  a  gentle- 
man, "which  he  that  wanteth  is  not  otherwise  than 
equivalcntly  a  gentleman  as  an  Image  or  a  Carkase  is  a 
man,"  are  especially  two,  Courage  and  Courtesy.  With- 
out these  "  gentility  is  no  more  than  a  vain  show  or  an 
empty  name."  Of  gentlemanly  courage  he  says:  It 
is  not  seen  in  a  flaunting  garb  or  in  strutting  deport- 
ment, not  in  hectorly,  ruffianlike    swaggering  or  truss- 


THE    GENTLEMAN.  293 

ing ;  not  in  high  looks  or  big  words,  but  in  stout  and 
gallant  deeds,  employing  vigor  of  mind  and  heart  to 
achieve  them."  There  are  those  who  can  not  distin- 
guish between  the  blusterer  and  the  gentleman.  Soft 
words,  courteous  hints,  gentle  forbearance,  silent  mag- 
nanimity, are  lost  on  them  as  a  child's  caresses  would  be 
lost  on  a  hippopotamus.  But  give  them  blows,  punches, 
stripes,  kicks  and  they  at  once  adore  your  divinity. 
Coleridge  says  that  once  he  was  riding  in  a  coach  ''op- 
posite a  Jew,  a  symbol  of  old  clothes,  an  Isaac  of  Ho- 
lywell street. "  Coleridge  opened  a  window,  the  Jew  shut 
it;  Coleridge  put  it  up,  the  Jew  put  it  down;  the  author 
of  the  "Ancient  Mariner"  again  opened  it,  the  mod- 
ern Isaac  again  closed  it.  At  length  Coleridge,  waxing 
wroth,  began  to  abuse  him  roundly  and  railed  at  the 
son  of  Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob  in  a  style  which  would 
be  strikingly  appropriate  if  directed  against  a  pork  kill- 
ing establishment  in  full  blast,  winding  up  as  follows: 
"See  the  Man  in  the  Moon?  He  holds  his  nose  at 
thee  at  that  distance.  Dost  thou  think  that  I,  sitting 
here,  can  endure  it  any  longer?"  The  Jew  was  aston- 
ished, opened  the  window  himself  forthwith  and  said, 
* '  I  am  sorry,  sir,  I  did  not  know  before,  you  was  so 
great  a  gentleman."  Coleridge  was  a  gentleman  not- 
withstanding the  Jewish  compliment.  But  as  Barrow 
says,  the  courage  of  the  true  gentleman  is  not  of  that 
blustering  and  demonstrative  type  which  forcibly  im- 
presses the  senses,  but  of  that  silent,  unseen  type 
which  carries  a  man  unfalteringly  and  triumphantly 
through  all  that  is  to  be  endured  and  done.  One  of 
the  finest  chapters  in  The  Caxtons  is  that  entitled, 
"My  Father's  crotchet  on  the  Hygienic  Chemistry  of 
Books."  Mr.  Caxton,  Sr. ,  perceiving  that  his  brother, 
the  Captain,  and  his  son  Pisistratus  both  needed  medi- 
cines for  certain  ailments  of  mind  with  which  they  were 


294  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

respectively  afflicted,  prescribed  for  them  an  original 
cure.  *  *  '  Roland,  you  said  you  would  try  my  prescrip- 
tion, here  it  is,'  and  my  father  took  up  a  book  and 
reached  it  to  the  captain.  My  uncle  looked  over  it — 
Life  of  Rev.  Robert  Hall — 'brother,  he  was  a  dissenter 
and  thank  heaven  I  am  a  Church  and  State  man  to 
the  backbone.'  'Robert  Hall  was  a  brave  man  and  a 
true  soldier  under  the  Great  Commander,*  said  my 
father  artfully.  The  captain  mechanically  carried  his 
forefinger  to  his  forehead  in  military  fashion  and  saluted 
the  book  respectfully."  A  few  days  after  the  two  in- 
valids, or  convalescents,  as  we  may  now  call  them,  sit 
together  and  begin  to  talk  about  the  book.  ' '  Well, 
sir,"  said  Roland,  "has  the  prescription  done  you  any 
good?"  "Yes  Uncle,  great."  "  And  me  too,  by  Ju- 
piter. Sisty  that  same  Hall  was  a  fine  fellow.  I  won- 
der if  the  medicine  has  gone  through  the  same  chan- 
nels in  both?  Tell  me  first  how  it  has  affected  you." 
Pisistratus  is  most  struck  with  the  earnest  heavenly 
purpose  of  the  man,  "A  man  intent  upon  a  sublime 
and  spiritual  duty,  in  short,  living,  as  it  were,  in  it,  and 
so  filled  with  the  consciousness  of  immortality  and  so 
strong  in  the  link  between  God  and  man,  that  without 
any  affected  stoicism,  without  being  insensible  to  pain, 
rather  perhaps  from  a  nervous  temperament  acutely  feel- 
ing it,  he  yet  has  a  happiness  wholly  independent  of  it. 
It  is  impossible  not  to  be  thrilled  with  an  admiration 
that  elevates  while  it  awes  you,  in  reading  that  solemn 
'Dedication  of  himself  to  God,*"  and  so  forth.  "All 
that  is  very  well  said,"  quoth  the  captain,  "but  it  did 
not  strike  me.  What  I  have  seen  in  this  book  is  cour- 
age. Here  is  a  poor  creature  rolling  on  the  carpet  with 
agony,  from  childhood  to  death  tortured  by  a  mysterious 
and  incurable  malady,  a  malady  that  is  described  as  an 
internal   apparatus  of   torture,    and   who    does  by   his 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  295 

heroism  more  than  bear  it,  he  puts  it  out  of  its  power 
to  afflict  him,  and  though  (here  is  the  passage)  '  his 
appointment  by  day  and  by  night  was  incessant  pain, 
yet  high  enjoyment  was  notwithstanding  the  law  of  his 
existence.'  Robert  Hall  reads  me  a  lesson,  me,  an  old 
soldier  who  thought  myself  above  taking  lessons  in 
courage  at  least.  And  as  I  came  to  that  passage  when 
in  the  sharp  paroxysms  before  death  he  says,  *  I  have 
not  complained,  have  I,  sir?  And  I  won't  complain.' 
When  I  came  to  that  passage,  I  started  up  and  cried, 
*  Roland  de  Caxton,  thou  hast  been  a  coward  and,  an 
thou  hadst  thy  deserts,  thou  hadst  been  cashiered, 
broken  and  drummed  out  of  the  regiment  long  ago.'" 
The  old  soldier  was  right.  That  was  true  heroism — true 
gentlemanly  courage,  the  courage  of  the  Christian, 
showing,  as  the  Guesses  at  Truth  says,  that  the  Christian 
is  God  Almighty's  Gentleman.  That  courage  which 
will  take  up  pain  and  by  devotion  to  duty  put  it  out  of 
the  power  of  pain  to  affect  the  man,  to  disturb  the 
serenity  of  his  inward  peace,  or  imbitter  the  sweetness 
of  his  soul's  influences — there  is  no  higher  courage 
known  than  that.  Every  Gentleman  needs  this  courage 
too,  every  day  of  his  life,  although  he  may  not,  like 
Hall,  lie  on  his  back  on  the  floor  by  the  day  and  the 
week,  racked  with  agony  intense.  The  thousand 
petty  annoyances  and  discouragements,  which  like 
skirmishers  beset  and  harass  the  soldier  of  duty  every 
day,  which  tempt  him  to  parley  with  the  enemy,  to 
betray  his  Leader's  cause,  to  swerve  from  the  right  path 
or  to  turn  his  back  ignominously,  these  require  the  same 
steadiness,  the  same  enthusiasm,  the  same  fearlessness, 
the  same  devotion,  which  sustain  him  on  the  battlefield 
when  the  storm  of  fire  and  death  sweep  round.  He 
who  surrenders  to  the  guerrillas  of  life,  the  sneers,  the 
taunts,  the  sarcasms  of  the  superficial  or  the    unprin- 


296  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

cipled,  is  a  greater  coward,  a  greater  because  a  more 
inexcusable  coward,  than  he  who  flinches  before  the 
tempest  and  hail  of  persecution  and  martyrdom,  and 
he  deserves,  as  Roland  dc  Caxton  expressed  it,  "to  be 
cashiered,  broken  and  drummed  out  of  the  regiment" 
of  God's  Gentlemen. 

The  other  primary  quality  of  a  Gentleman,  according 
to  Barrow,  is  Courtesy.  Originally  the  word  meant  the 
manners  of  one  accustomed  to  court  life,  the  affability, 
condescension,  gentleness  and  deferential  urbanity  of  a 
courtier.      But  now,  as  Milton  says,  it 

"  Oft  is  sooner  found  in  lowly  sheds 
With  smoaky  rafters,  than  in  tap'stry  halls, 
In  courts  of  princes  where  it  first  was  named. 
And  yet  is  most  pretended." 

Looking  from  its  original  to  its  present  signification, 
let  us  glance  at  some  of  its  features.  True  courtesy  shows 
itself  in  a  delicate  appreciation  of  the  feelings  of  others. 
It  exchanges  positions  and  conditions  with  them,  enters 
into  their  symptoms;  their  needs,  their  preferences,  their 
antipathies,  their  prejudices,  even  their  idolatries.  It 
does  not  demand  instant  and  absolute  conformity  to  its 
own  standard.  It  is  not  a  stiff,  unbending  perpendicu- 
lar to  which  everything  must  make  itself  parallel  and 
equal.  The  courteous  man  always  interprets  the  words 
and  deeds  of  others  according  to  the  intent  rather  than 
the  form.  He  clothes  the  awkwardness,  the  untoward- 
ness,  it  may  be  the  impropriety  of  the  expression,  with 
the  beauty  of  the  thought,  which  is  the  soul  of  it.  Feel- 
ing is  sacred  with  him,  except  when  it  stands  in  the 
way  of  duty.  He  would  no  more  lay  violent  hands  on 
another's  self-respect,  than  a  devout  Israelite  would  have 
violated  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant.  His  heart  is  stung 
tenfold  more  by  the  wrong  which  he  unwittingly  inflicts 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  29/ 

than  by  that  which  he  receives.  His  air  never  says : 
"I  am  Sir  Oracle,  and  when  I  ope  my  mouth,  let  no 
dog  bark. ' '  You  never  feel  hke  saying  to  him :  *  *  Excuse 
me,  my  Lord,  for  stepping  on  your  shadow!"  Nor 
yet  like  saying :  '  *  Who  has  made  thee  better  than  me. " 
His  whole  conduct  testifies  the  profoundest  reverence 
for  manhood.  The  affinities  are  more  pronounced  than 
the  antagonisms.  The  universal  overshadows  the  par- 
ticular. Without  contracting  his  freedom,  he  does  not  in- 
flate his  individuality.  There  are  some  who  spend  most  of 
their  time  in  cultivating  wens  and  warts.  They  are  proud 
of  their  deformities  and  infirmities,  and  they  meet  with 
a  class  of  sympathizers  who  fully  envy  them  the  posses- 
sions of  their  distinctions  as  marks  of  superiority. 
'*  I'm  sure,  sister, '^  says  Mrs.  Pallet  of  the  Dodson  fam- 
ily, ''it's  a  nice  sort  o'  man  as  Mrs.  Sutton  has  left  her 
money  to,  for  he's  troubled  with  the  asthmy,  and  goes 
to  bed  every  night  at  eight  o'clock.  He  told  me  about 
it  himself  one  Sunday,  as  free  as  could  be,  when 
he  came  to  our  church.  He  wears  a  hare-skin  on  his 
chest  and  has  a  trembling  in  his  talk,  quite  a  gentleman 
sort  o'  man."  The  Pallet  idea  of  the  Gentleman  is  more 
common  than  many  suppose,  but  it  won't  do.  The 
true  gentleman  is  a  healthy  man.  He  does  not  parade 
his  defects  as  virtues.  He  does  not  thrust  his  distorted 
or  puffed  out  individualism  on  society  as  much  as  to 
say:  *'This  is  the  kind  of  man  I  am,  and  this  is  the 
kind  I  mean  to  be.  If  you  don't  like  me,  get  out  of 
the  way,  I  have  the  inalienable  right  to  be  myself  and 
nobody  else."  The  true  Gentleman  makes  you  think 
more  of  the  man  than  of  this  or  that  part  of  him. 
Thus  most,  if  not  all,  are  at  home  with  him.  He  is 
fundamentally  impartial,  equal  in  his  courtesies.  He  is 
not  to  one  June,  expanding  in  bloom,  radiant  with  cheer, 
and  gushing  wi.th  sweetness,  while  to  another  just  as 


298  LLEWELYN  lOAN  EVANS. 

good  he  Is  a  January,  ice-bound,  grim,  freezing.  Of 
course  he  has  his  preferences  and  his  antipathies.  But  he 
is  not  their  slave.  Their  tyranny  never  compels  him  to 
be  unfair,  unkind,  ungenerous.  Like  the  poet  he  is 
"dowered  with  hate  of  hate,  with  scorn  of  scorn,  with 
love  of  love." 

He  is  true,  simple,  sine  plica,  without  a  fold.  He 
does  not  live  a  double  life.  His  courtesies  are  not  as- 
sumed. They  are  not  Saul's  armor  on  the  body  of 
David.  They  sit  easy  on  him  because  they  are  a  part 
of  himself  They  are  the  Hving  language  of  a  soul  full 
of  all  princely,  generous  and  royal  magnanimities,  a  soul 
above  the  narowness  and  shallowness  and  littleness  of  a 
shackled,  servile  condition,  or  of  a  false,  artifical  life,  or 
of  a  gross  material  career.  They  are  the  flowing  de- 
velopment of  a  free  life.  Yet  he  is  not  a  bundle  of 
manners.  His  mores,  manners,  are  not  his  inoivSy  morals. 
The  two  are  not  divorced.  His  manhood  is  not  melted 
into  courtesies.  The  flowers  outside  are  the  bloom  of 
the  granite-dust ;  the  rock  still  lies  at  their  roots.  Beauty 
in  his  character  is  the  bride  of  strength.  Only  if  either 
has  not  yet  found  its  mate,  it  is  strength.  Is  grace  want- 
ing? It  is  a  pity.  Is  strength  wanting?  It  is  a  s'hame. 
Dr.  Johnson  was  often  harsh,  inconsiderate,  overbearing, 
bearish,  yet  the  world  has  always  accepted  him  as,  after 
all,  a  gentleman.  Why  ?  Because  beneath  that  shaggy 
outside,  behind  those  rough  words,  beat  a  heart  as  ten- 
der and  loving  as  any  woman's,  yet  withal  as  independ- 
ent as  a  king's.  He  picked  up  the  wretches  whom  he 
found  in  the  stree^,  fed  them  out  of  his  half  empty 
cupboard,  clothed  them  out  of  his  scanty  wardrobe,  gave 
them  money  out  of  his  purse  in  which,  like  Timon's,  it 
was  "deepest  winter, "and  sympathy  out  of  his  heart 
where  brightest  summer  reigned.  The  model  gentleman 
of  the  mode  in  that  day  was  Lord  Chesterfield,  whose 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  299 

letters  to  his  son  were  long  the  Code  of  Fashion,  the 
manual  of  the  gentleman,  made,  not  born,  and  perhaps 
may  be  yet.  Lord  Chesterfield  had  always  treated 
Johnson  with  cold  disdain  and  neglect.  But  when  he 
heard  that  Johnson  was  about  to  publish  his  Dictionary 
he  began  to  flatter  and  to  compliment  him,  writing  ar- 
ticles in  his  praise,  hoping  in  this  way  to  secure  the 
Dedication  of  his  great  work  to  himself.  Johnson  wrote 
him  a  letter  in  which  he  said :  "  Seven  years,  my  Lord, 
have  now  past  since  I  waited  in  your  outward  rooms  or 
was  repulsed  from  your  door  ;  during  which  time  I  have 
been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficulties  of  which 
it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it  at  last  to 
the  verge  of  publication  without  one  act  of  assistance, 
one  word  of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favor. 
Such  treatment  I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a  patron 
before.  ■ .  .  Is  not  a  patron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks 
with  unconcern  on  a  man  struggling  for  Hfe  in  the  wa- 
ter, and  when  he  has  reached  ground  encumbers  him 
with  help  ?  The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased  to 
take  of  my  labor,  had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind,  but 
it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent  and  cannot  en- 
joy it ;  till  I  am  solitary  and  cannot  impart  it ;  till  I  am 
known  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no  cynical  as- 
perity not  to  confess  obligation  when  no  benefit  has 
been  received,  or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should 
consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  patron  which  providence 
has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myself."  Who  was  the 
greater  gentleman — the  courtly,  polished,  heartless  man 
of  the  world,  ' '  the  glass  of  Fashion  and  the  mould  of 
form,"  whose  word  was  law  and  whose  favor  would 
have  been  a  fortune,  or  the  poor  but  grandly  proud 
Dictionary  maker,  who  would  not  barter  away  his  self- 
respect  and  honor  for  the  kingdom  which  lay  in  the 
smile  of  a  Chesterfield  ? 


300  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

In    close    connection  with   the    traits  just   described 
stand  self-reliance  and  presence  of  mind.     The  gentle- 
man stands  firm  on  his  own  foundations.     This  implies 
that  he  has  foundations  to  stand  on.      *^Well,"  said  a 
conceited  fellow  once  to  Dr.  Emmons,  **  every  tub  must 
stand  on  its  own  bottom."    "Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"but  what  will  those  tubs  do  that  have  no  bottom?" 
The  gentleman  needs  no  crutches.     He  stands  and  moves 
in  the  strength  and  dignity  of  his  own  manhood.     He  is 
master  of  the  situation.      He  is  not  in  haste  to  "rush 
in   when  angels  fear  to  tread."     He  does  not  fall  Into 
the  blunder  of  certain  upstarts  in  the  Apostle  James' 
day,  who  took  a  higher  seat  than  was  becoming  to  them 
and  were  commanded  to  come  down  again.    If  he  is  bid- 
den to  take  a  lower  seat   "some  one  blundered,"  but 
not  he.    His  humility,  which  is  an  inahenable  trait  of 
his  character,  teaches  him  his  place  and, his  powers.    It 
causes  moreover  that  he  is  not  always  thinking  of  him- 
self and  imagining  that  everybody  else  is  thinking  of 
him.     This  is  the  important  difference  between  him  and 
the  snob.     The  latter  has  an  intense  consciousness  of 
his   own    importance.     Most   generally  he    enjoys   the 
monopoly  of  the  conviction.    Sometimes  a  more  merito- 
rious person  than  the  snob,  who  has  many  of  the  ele- 
ments of  the  true  gentleman,  is  painfully  lacking  in  the 
power  of  self-forgetfulness.     In  consequence  he  is  easily 
embarrassed,  unbalanced,    thrown    off  his  centre.     He 
curses   daily   his   misfortune,    his  bad   luck.      His  good 
thoughts  never  come  at  the  right  nick  of  time.      A  hap- 
py idea  strikes  him,  but,  alas  !  it  is  five  minutes  too  late. 
He  is  lacking  in  the  gentlemanly  quality  —  presence  of 
mind.     He  is  not  exactly  what  is  called  absent-minded. 
Many  a  gentleman  is  that.     You  have  heard  of  the  man 
who,  while  out  visiting  a  friend,  was  overtaken  by  a 
storm  which  raged  so  furiously  that  his  host  insisted  on 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  30I 

his  spending  the  night  with  him.  During  the  evening, 
the  storm  raging  violently,  he  was  found  to  be  missing, 
but  presently  he  reappeared  dripping  from  top  to  toe, 
looking  like  a  dog  about  the  paws  and  like  a  weeping 
willow  about  the  head.  On  being  asked,  "where  on 
earth  have  you  been?"  he  quietly  answered,  "I  have 
been  home  to  tell  my  wife  it  was  such  a  bad  night  I 
should  not  return."  That  man,  I  say,  was  most  indubi- 
tably a  perfect  gentleman,  the  ladies  being  judges.  But 
he  was  a  little  absent-minded !  But  by  presence  of 
mind  I  mean  that  constant  self-posession  which  prevents 
a  man's  being  taken  by  surprise  and  having  the  enemy 
thundering  through  his  camp  while  he  is  half  asleep  and 
half-dressed. 

Dr.  Brown,  in  Spare  Hours,  calls  it  having  the  out- 
posts always  awake,  and  compares  it  to  sleeping  with 
your  pistol  under  your  pillow  and  it  on  full  cock.  He 
gives  an  instance  which  is  worth  quoting  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  the  dependence  of  this  quahty  on  the  fact  of 
gentlemanhood.  I  shall  give  the  Doctor's  own  inimitable 
version.  "  Dr.  Reid  of  Peebles  .  .  .  a  man  of  great  force 
of  character  and  a  true  Philip,  a  lover  of  horses,  saw 
one  fair  day  a  black  horse,  entire  thoroughbred.  The 
groom  asked  a  low  price  and  would  answer  no  ques-  • 
tions.  At  the  close  of  the  Fair  the  Doctor  bought 
him  amid  the  derision  of  his  friends.  Next  morning  he 
rode  him  up  the  road,  came  home  after  a  long  round 
and  had  never  been  better  carried.  This  went  on  for 
some  weeks;  this  fine  creature  was  without  a  fault. 
One  Sunday  morning  he  was  posting  up  by  Neidpath  at 
a  great  pace,  the  country  people  trooping  into  town  to 
church.  Opposite  the  fine  old  castle  the  thoroughbred 
stood  stock  still,  and  it  needed  all  the  Doctor's  horse- 
manship to  counteract  the  law  of  projectiles  ;  he  did, 
and  sat  still  and  not  only  gave  no  sign  of  urging  the 


302  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

horse,  but  rather  intimated  that  it  was  his  particular 
desire  that  he  should  stop.  He  sat  still  a  full  hour,  his 
friends  making  an  excellent  joke  of  it,  and  he  declining 
of  course  all  interference.  At  the  end  of  the  hour, 
Black  Duke,  as  he  was  called,  turned  one  ear  forward, 
then  the  other,  looked  aside,  shook  himself  and  moved 
on,  his  master  intimating  that  this  was  exactly  what  he 
wished  ;  and  from  that  day  until  his  death  some  fifteen 
years  after,  never  did  these  two  friends  allude  to  this 
little  circumstance,  and  it  was  never  repeated,  though 
it  turned  out  that  he  had  killed  his  two  men  previously." 
This  certainly  shows,  as  Dr.  B.  says,  great  presence  of 
mind,  but  does  it  not  show  something  else  ?  Would 
any  other  than  a  perfect  gentleman  have  treated  his 
horse  that  way,  humoring  his  whims ,  entering  so  thor- 
oughly into  the  horse's  feelings,  and  deferring  so  cour- 
teously to  his  good  pleasure?  Didn't  the  horse  feel 
that  he  was  treated  like  a  gentleman,  and  wasn't  the 
logical  inference  that  he  who  bestrode  him  was  a  gen- 
tleman ?  And  wasn't  that  a  fine  gentlemanly  trait  in 
each  that  neither  ever  after  alluded  to  the  little  circum- 
stance? Suppose  the  brute  in  the  case  to  have  been  a 
biped  and  not  a  quadruped,  would  not  the  result  have 
been  the  same  ?  Is  it  not  perfectly  evident  therefore, 
that  to  be  perfectly  master  of  the  situation,  a  man  must 
have  that  clear  instantaneous  perception  of  all  the  ne- 
cessities of  an  emergency,  which  only  true  gentleman- 
hood,  that  is,  entire  self-control  and  a  delicate  appre- 
ciation of  all  the  surrounding  forces,  and  gentleness 
combined  with  firmness  in  managing  those  forces,  can 
give?  The  perfect  gentleman  is  then  at  once  self-pos- 
sessed, self-reliant,  and  self- forgetful.  When  Robert 
Burns  came  to  Edinburgh,  fresh  from  the  plow  and 
the  sod,  and  was  introduced  as  the  lion  of  the  season 
to  the    most   select  circles  of  Auld    Reekie,  he   took 


THE    GENTLEMAN.     '  303 

his  place  at  once  among  the  first  gentlemen  of  Scotland. 
He  charmed  all  by*  the  nobility  of  his  demeanor,  the 
purity  of  his  speech,  the  exquisite  propriety  of  his 
manners.  Whence  had  he  learned  it  all  ?  Not  in 
school,  not  in  fine  society,  for  he  had  seen  but  little  of 
either.  But  his  teachers  had  been  diviner  ones  than 
books,  or  school,  or  society.  That  gentle  heart  which 
grieved  over  the  "wee  mousie"  whose  habitation  had 
been  upturned  and  overthrown  by  the  plough,  the  self- 
respect  and  self-reliance  which  ring  in  every  line  of  "A 
man's  a  man  for  a  that,"  his  ''pith  o'  sense  and  pride 
o'  worth,"  his  self-unconsciousness,  his  native  courtesy 
combined  with  intellect  and  genius,  these  they  were 
which  gave  the  ploughboy  of  Ayrshire  the  mien  and 
bearing  of  a  nobleman. 

The  gentleman  must  not  be  a  drudge.  By  this  I  do 
not  mean  that  he  should  be  a  lazy  good-for-nothing. 
Neither  rank,  nor  blood,  nor  office,  nor  money,  nor 
reputation,  nor  polish  gives  any  man  exemption  from 
the  universal  Law  of  Labor.  The  miserable  fallacy 
that  to  be  a  gentleman  is  to  have  nothing  to  do,  has 
too  long  been  the  curse  of  those  who  aspire  to  the 
name.  He  of  the  Silver  Spoon,  whose  sole  business 
in  life  is  to  be  fed,  to  be  waited  on,  to  consume  his 
blank  hundreds  or  blank  thousands  a  year — the  least 
said  of  him  the  better.  The  Highest  whom  the  world 
has  known  came  not  to  be  ministered  into,  but  to  min- 
ister. "  All  true  work,"  says  a  well-known  writer,  *Ms 
sacred.  In  all  true  work,  were  it  but  true  hard  labor, 
there  is  something  of  divineness.  Labor  wide  as  the 
earth  has  its  summit  in  heaven.  Sweat  of  the  brow, 
and  up  from  that  to  sweat  of  the  brain,  sweat  of  the 
heart,  which  includes  all  Kepler  calculations,  Newton 
meditations,  all  sciences,  all  spoken  epics,  all  acted 
Heroisms,  Martyrdoms  up  to  that    '  agony   of  bloody 


304  LEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

sweat,  which  all  men  have  called  divine.  .  .  .  And  who 
art  thou  that  braggcst  of  thy  type  of  idleness,  com- 
placently showest  thy  bright  equipages,  sumptuous 
cushions,  apphances  for  the  folding  of  the  hands  for 
more  sleep?  Looking  up,  looking  down,  around,  be- 
hind, before,  discernest  thou  if  it  be  not  in  Mayfair 
alone,  any  idle  hero,  saint,  God,  or  even  devil  ?  Not  a 
vestige  of  one.  In  the  Heavens,  in  the  Earth,  in  the 
waters  under  the  earth,  is  none  like  to  thee.  One 
monster  there  is  in  the  world — the  idle  man."  *' Gen- 
tlemen have  to  learn,"  says  Ruskin,  ''that  it  is  no  part 
of  their  duty  or  privilege  to  live  on  other  people's  toil. 
They  have  to  learn  that  there  is  no  degradation  in  the 
hardest  manual  or  the  humblest  servile  labor  when  it  is 
honest;  but  that  there  is  degradation,  and  that  deep,  in 
extravagance,  in  bribery,  in  indolence,  in  pride,  ia 
taking  places  they  are  not  fit  for,  or  in  coining  places 
for  which  there  is  no  need.  It  does  not  disgrace  a  gen- 
tleman to  become  an  errand  boy  or  a  day  laborer,  but 
it  disgraces  him  to  become  a  knave  or  a  thief,  and 
knaving  is  not  the  less  knaving  because  it  involves 
large  interests,  nor  theft  the  less  theft  because  it  is 
countenanced  by  usage  or  accompanied  by  failure  in 
undertaken  duty.  ...  On  the  other  hand,  lower  orders 
and  all  orders  have  to  learn,  that  every  vicious  habit 
and  chronic  disease  communicates  itself  by  descent, 
and  that  by  purity  of  birth  the  entire  system  of  the 
human  body  and  soul  may  be  gradually  elevated,  or 
by  recklessness  of  birth  degraded,  until  there  shall  be 
as  much  difference  between  the  well-bred  and  the  ill- 
bred  human  creature,  whatever  pains  be  taken  in 
their  education,  as  between  a  wolf  hound  and  the  vilest 
mongrel  cur."  If  all  work  is  noble,  then* the  workman 
is  to-day's  nobleman.  The  chivalry  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century  is  the  chivalry  of  Labor.      Mrs.  Browning  has 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  30^ 

said:  ^'The  earth  is  all  too  gray  for  chivalry."  Yes! 
for  the  chivalry  of  the  Lance  and  the  Tournament. 
The  world  is  too  gray  or  rather  too  mature  for  that, 
''Being,"  says  Goethe,  ''is  ever  a  glorious  birth  into 
higher  Being." 

Chivalry  has  been  transformed.  A  new  and  nobler 
chivalry  has  dawned  upon  the  world — the  chivalry  of 
the  Plough  and  the  Loom,  the  chivalry  of  the  Pen  and 
the  Press,  the  chivalry  of  Books.  Our  Knights  Tem- 
plars are  our  Mechanics  and  Manufacturers ;  our  Grand 
Masters  are  our  Teachers  and  our  Authors.  The 
Knighthood  of  the  age  is  that  of  the  strong  arm  and 
the  cunning  hand  and  the  vigorous  brain.  The  ring  of 
the  blacksmith's  anvil  has  as  much  poetry  in  it  as  the 
ring  of  the  old  crusader's  shield.  The  sweat  which 
drops  in  the  newly  turned  furrow  is  nobler  than  the 
blood  which  stained  the  field  of  gold.  Is  your  vocation 
honorable?  Is  it  useful?  Be  proud  of  it  as  any  old 
knight  of  his  order.  If  you  rightly  and  worthily 
fulfill  it,  and  faithfully  cultivate  the  duties  which  grow 
out  of  it,  and  all  the  graces  which  adorn  it,  you  are 
more  truly  a  gentleman  in  the  sight  of  God  than  if 
every  drop  which  rolls  in  your  veins  were  the  blood  of 
a  Percy  or  a  Plantagenet.  This  war  has  been  called  by 
some,  who  instigated  it,  a  gentleman's  war,  a  war  of 
the  gentlemen  of  the  South  against  churls.  Very  well,  so 
be  it!  It  is  a  gentleman's  war,  a  war  for  God'sidtdi  of  a 
gentleman,  a  free,  self-owning,  self-respecting,  self-gov- 
erning Workman,  against  the  Devil's  idea  of  a  gentle- 
man— the  Do-nothing  !  Chivalry  ?  Yes  !  there  is  chiv- 
alry on  the  one  side  or  the  other,  chivalry  of  a  certain 
kind  on  both  sides ;  but  on  the  one  side  it  is  the  old 
effete  chivalry  of  the  Past,  on  the  other  side  the  young 
blooming  chivalry  of  the  Future,  the  chivalry  of  the 
Millennium,  when  the  highest  title  known  on  earth  will 


306  LLEWELYN    lOAN   EVANS. 

be  Worker.  The  gentleman,  I  say,  is  the  worklngman. 
But  however  hard  and  however  faithfully  he  may  labor 
he  is  never  the  drudge.  What  do  I  mean  ?  I  mean  that 
he  does  not  carry  into  his  work  a  menial  spirit,  the 
spirit  of  the  hack,  of  the  galley-slave.  He  will  never 
allow  himself  to  become  a  wheel  whirhng  around  and 
around,  without  ever  advancing.  He  will  never  be  con- 
tent to  work  drearily,  mechanically,  like  a  horse  in  the 
tread  mill,  without  ever  asking  himself,  ''What  is  to 
become  of  all  this  work?"  Labor  will  be  to  him  a 
means,  not  an  end.  He  will  not  be  satisfied  until  his 
work  becomes  in  some  way  a  blessing.  This  is  the  es- 
sential difference  between  the  Drudge  and  the  Gentle- 
man. The  former  just  works,  the  latter  is  a  Doer.  The 
former  goes  through  his  work  as  the  plow  goes  through 
the  sod — driven  through  it;  the  work  of  the  latter 
comes  out  of  him  like  the  song  out  of  the  bird,  a  joy 
to  the  bird  and  to  the  universe  of  God.  You  have 
seen  a  man  sawing  wood.  Rather  a  curious  machine 
on  the  whole.  Saw — saw — saw — all  day  long  ;  a  saw 
with  a  man  behind  it.  Have  you  ever  seen  Ole  Bull 
playing  the  violin  ?  Holding  it  as  tenderly,  embracing 
it  as  lovingly,  leaning  toward  it  as  sweetly  as  though  it 
were  his  bosom  bride,  his  tall  form  swaying  gracefully 
like  one  of  the  pines  of  his  own  doorway,  his  right 
arm  sweeping  those  mystic  strings  with  the  magnetic 
bow,  he  draws  out  the  deep  impassioned  tone,  the 
weird  a^olian  wail,  the  melting  bird-like  warble,  the 
thrilling  strain  and  stirring  chord — whence?  Out  of 
the  depths  of  his  own  musical  soul.  The  violin?  You 
don't  think  of  it.  It  is  lost  in  the  man.  The  magician 
and  his  instrument  are  one  in  the  enchantment  of  sense 
and  soul,  which  he  throws  around  you.  Like  Ole 
Bull's  violin  is  work  to  a  Godlike  worker.  It  becomes 
a  part  of  himself  and  he  draws  his  soul's  harmonies  out 


THE   GENTLEMAN.  307 

of  it.  Saw — saw — saw — that  is  the  drudge.  Music — 
enchantment  —  heaven  —  that  is  the  artist;  and  every 
true  worker,  every  one  who  works  for  the  soul  and  not 
for  the  body,  for  spiritual  ends  and  not  for  physical,  for 
the  hereafter  and  not  for  the  now,  every  such  worker 
is  an  artist,  though  his  work  be  only  the  sawing  of 
wood.  And  the  moment  he  ceases  to  be  a  drudge  he 
becomes  a  gentleman,  although  like  God's  first  gentle- 
man, his  implement  be  a  spade.  The  curse  of  Ameri- 
can business,  of  American  work,  is  that  there  is  too 
much  drudgery  in  it.  We  dig  and  we  delve,  we 
buy  and  we  sell,  we  hammer  and  we  plow,  we  scrib- 
ble and  we  travel,  we  press  heaven  and  earth  and  the 
nethermost  abyss  into  our  service ;  we  toil  like  Hercu- 
les, we  kill  hydras  and  human  lions  and  pythons,  we 
level  mountains  and  fill  up  the  valleys  and  create  States, 
we  would  think  nothing  of  contracting  to  build  Rome 
in  a  day  or  of  constructing  a  Continent  in  a  week.  Old 
World  fogies  and  Old  World  geologists  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding,  but  it  is  the  most  gigantic  drudgery. 
There  is  too  little  freedom,  enjoyment,  elevation,  inspi- 
ration, about  it.  It  is  time  we  rise  above  this  slavery 
to  toil  and  learn  the  art  of  working.  We  need  to  learn 
how  to  rest.  The  man  who  works  the  most  is  he  who 
rests  the  most.  But  the  secret  of  rest  escapes  nine  out 
of  ten.  The  art  of  Recreation  is  to  many  aTost  or  an 
undiscovered  art.  They  have  not  the  slightest  idea  of 
the  way  to  recreate  their  wasted  energies.  These  are  arts 
indispensable  to  the  perfect  gentleman,  which  we  must 
cultivate  more  diligently  and  successfully  if,  as  I  trust 
we  do,  we  aspire  to  become  a  nation  of  gentlemen. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  name  in  addition  as  traits  of 
the  Gentleman,  Magnanimity,  Honor,  Unselfishness. 
In  nothing  were  the  benefits  of  Chivalry  more  manifest 
than    in  the   encouragement  which    it  afforded   to  the 


3o8  LLEWELYN  lOAN  EVANS. 

development  of  these  virtues.  Compare  the  conduct  of 
the  Black  Prince  toward  a  vanquished  adversary,  with 
the  wrath  of  a  barbarian  Achilles.  Under  the  walls  of 
Calais,  Edward  fought  hand  to  hand  with  a  French 
Knight  and  overcame  him.  Afterward  he  entertained 
him  as  a  guest,  and  when  the  supper  was  over,  took  the . 
chaplet  of  pearls  from  his  own  brow  and  placed  it  upon 
that  of  his  adversary,  saying:  "Well  hast  thou  fought, 
Sir  Eustace  !  Wear  these  for  my  sake,  and  accept  thy  free- 
dom as  a  token  of  my  good-will."  But  there  is  a  higher 
magnanimity  than  that.  It  is  not  so  hard  to  be  mag- 
nanimous to  one  you  have  vanquished.  But  can  you  be 
rnagnanimous  to  one  who  has  vanquished  you  ?  If  so, 
then  indeed  you  are  a  Gentleman. 

Honor  is  no  less  indispensable  ;  superiority  to  all  that 
is  mean,  underhanded,  tortuous  in  policy,  to  all  double 
dealing  in  speech  or  in  practice,  to  all  untruthfulness, 
treachery,  deceit.     The  Gentleman,  like  Arthur,  is  a 

"King  who  iionors  his  own  word 
As  if  it  were  his  God's." 

Not  only  does  he  shrink  from  doing  that  which  he 
feels  would  be  dishonorable  when  others  are  looking  on, 
but  when  he  is  alone,  for  he  preserves  his  honor  toward 
God  and  not  merely  toward  men.  He  lives  "as  ever 
in  his  great  Taskmaster's  eye." 

And  to  crown  the  whole,  not  a  stain  of  selfishness  is 
allowed  to  rot  on  his  soil.  This  indeed  is  the  sum  of 
all  that  has  been  said.  Love  to  all,  pure,  disinterested, 
ever  growing,  will  make  the  gentleman,  whatever  natural 
aptitudes  or  acquired  accomphshments  he  may  be  want- 
ing ;  whereas,  he  who  thinks  first  and  only  of  himself, 
can  never  be  a  Gentleman,  though  he  have  the  manners 
of  a  Chesterfield,  and  though  his  pedigree  go  back  to 
the  Flood.     The  dying  Sidney  passing  the  cup  of  water 


THE   GENTLEMAN. 


309 


brought  to  himself  to  the  wounded  soldier  at  his  side, 
saying :  ' '  Thy  necessity  is  greater  than  mine, "  will  never 
be  forgotten  while  the  world  endures,  and  not  unworthy 
to  go  down  with  it  to  the  remotest  generations  is  the 
memory  of  our  own  gallant  Col.  Fred.  Jones,  who  in 
his  dying  agonies  sent  away  his  physician,  saying, 
"  Never  mind  me,  look  after  my  poor  men."  Heroes — 
Gentlemen  both !  Neither  can  we  forget  as  higher  and 
diviner  than  all,  one  great  Exemplar,  who  combined  in 
himself  these  and  all  the  perfections  of  complete  man- 
hood, who  sought  not  to  please  himself,  in  whom  was  no 
guile,  who  forgave  his  enemies  with  his  dying  breath,  who 
did  nothing  out  of  season  or  out  of  place,  who  won  all, 
subdued  all  in  reverence  to  him,  who  was  and  is  meek 
and  lowly  in  heart.  If  to  be  a  Christian  is  to  be  like 
Christ,  no  one  who  aspires  to  be  a  Gentleman  need  blush 
to  be  a  Christian. 


XII. 

THE  WELSH  PULPIT. 

I.  FROM  HOWEL  HARRIS  TO  ROBERT  ROBERTS  (cLYNOG). 

A  WRITER  ill  the  London  Christian  Spectator  has  said : 
* '  Welsh  preaching  is  as  great  a  mystery  to  an  EngHsh- 
man  as  the  language  ;  he  is  not  able  to  analyze  it,  nor 
to  put  himself  in  the  place  of  the  hearer,  and  to  judge 
for  himself  of  its  power.  Yet  he  is  assured,  on  good 
authority,  that  it  is  immeasurably  superior  to  the  best 
English  preaching ;  and  remembering  that  the  English 
pulpit  can  boast  of  a  Hall,  a  Chalmers,  and  a  Melville, 
he  begins  to  suppose  that  Welsh  preaching  must  be 
superhuman — something  to  which  the  angels  would  like 
to  listen,  if  Welsh  were  but  the  language  of  Paradise. 
It  can  not  be  translated ;  it  can  not  be  reproduced  in  an 
English  form  ;  the  beauty,  the  inexplicable  charm  van- 
ishes if  you  attempt  to  convey  it  through  any  other 
medium."  Struggling  as  best  we  may,  then,  with  our 
limitations,  let  us  endeavor  to  reproduce  as  vividly  as 
possible  some  of  the  leading  representatives  of  the 
Welsh  pulpit.  Having  done  this,  let  us  seek  to  enter, 
in  some  measure,  into  the  secret  of  its  power,  and  to 
describe  some  of  its  prominent  characteristics. 

The  movement  which  gave  to  Welsh  preaching  its 
distinctive  shape  and  character,  and  which  invested  the 
Welsh  pulpit  with  its  significance  was  Methodism.  That 
movement  began  in  Oxford  a  little  over  a  century  and 
a  half  ago,  in  a  little  circle  of  devout  young  men,  who 
(310) 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  3II 

associated  themselves  together  for  religious  improve- 
ment :  Wesley,  and  afterward  Whitfield,  being  of  the 
number.  At  first  a  movement  for  the  cultivation  of 
stricter  methods  of  holy  living,  it  assumed  ere  long  the 
character  and  the  proportions  of  a  deep  and  wide-spread 
religious  revival.  About  1735  the  movement  spread 
into  Wales,  through  the  agency  of  a  young  man  named 
Howell  Harris,  of  Trevecca,  South  Wales,  who  had 
gone  to  Oxford  to  prepare  for  orders  in  the  Church  of 
England ;  but  soon  becoming  disgusted  with  the  preva- 
lent laxity  and  immorality,  he  left  the  university  and  re- 
turned to  Wales.  He  engaged  in  teaching  a  parish 
school.  He  could  not  limit  himself,  however,  to  the 
duties  of  the  school-room.  The  Word  was  as  fire  burn- 
ing in  his  bones,  and  he  began  to  exhort  his  neighbors. 
Presently  he  extended  his  visitation  to  the  surrounding 
villages  and  towns.  His  course  being  distasteful  to  the 
parish  authorities,  he  was  put  out  of  the  school.  He 
now  resolved  to  devote  himself  to  the  business  of  preach- 
ing. Three  times  he  sought  for  Episcopal  ordination, 
and  three  times  he  was  refused.  He  felt  that  no  course 
was  now  open  for  him  but  to  seek  his  commission  from 
God ;  and  thus  invested  to  go  forth  as  a  preacher  of  re- 
pentance. Like  John  the  Baptist,  he  was  "made  with- 
out fear."  He  had  an  iron  frame,  an  eagle  eye,  and  a 
tongue  of  fire.  He  was,  as  John  Wesley  said  of  him, 
"a  powerful  speaker  both  by  nature  and  by  grace."  He 
seized  upon  all  available  opportunities  to  address  the 
multitudes,  preaching,  wherever  he  could  get  a  hearing, 
to  all  sorts  of  gatherings,  in  church-yards,  at  fairs,  in 
highways  and  byways,  and  always  with  tremendous  suc- 
cess. His  fame  spread  through  the  principality ;  and  he 
traveled  up  and  down  the  land  preaching  to  numerous 
multitudes,  so  that  thousands  were  brought  under  con- 
viction,   He  wa^  violently  persecuted.    Again  and  again 


312  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

he  escaped,  with  his  hfe  as  by  a  miracle.  His  autobiog- 
raphy is  a  grand,  thrilHng  record  of  a  noble,  heroic, 
consecrated  life.  Like  John  the  Baptist  again,  he  was 
the  morning  star  of  the  evangelical  reformation  in  his 
country,  and  he  worthily  heads  the  list  of  modern  Welsh 
preachers. 

A  still  greater  preacher  of  the  same  period  was  Daniel 
Rowlands,  of  Llangeitho.  He  was  a  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England,  converted  after  ordination,  at  the 
age  of  22.  At  once  he  threw  his  whole  soul  into  the 
preaching  of  a  living  Gospel.  He  was  ''the  first  of  the 
Welsh  clergy  to  be  called  a  Methodist."  His  fame  as  a 
preacher  spread  far  and  wide ;  and  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore the  insignificant  country  village  in  which  he  preached 
became  the  Mecca  of  the  Principality.  Thousands 
thronged  there  from  all  parts  of  Wales,  North  as  well 
as  South.  His  church  was  the  scene  of  successive  Pen- 
tecostal outpourings  of  the  Spirit  of  God  ;  and  the  mul- 
titudes who  took  their  pilgrimage  to  hear  him,  returned 
singing  the  songs  of  Zion,  which  echoed  and  re-echoed 
among  the  hills  on  their  way  home.  His  personal  ap- 
pearance was  commanding— a  broad,  high,  full  forehead, 
arching  eyebrows,  piercing  eyes,  a  wide  mouth,  thin 
lips,  and  resolute  look.  He  would  generally  leave  to 
others  the  conduct  of  the  preliminary  services,  although 
his  own  conduct  of  them  was  deeply  impressive.  One 
of  the  mightiest  of  the  Llangeitho  revivals  is  said  to 
have  broken  out  during  his  reading  of  the  Litany. 
When  the  time  for  the  sermon  had  come,  he  would  en- 
ter the  church  at  a  door  in  the  rear,  step  into  the  pul- 
pit with  a  wild  and  agitated  look,  give  out  one  verse  of 
a  psalm,  read  his  text,  and  begin  his  sermon  with  a  low 
voice  and  rapid  utterance,  betraying  strong  feeling  and 
some  degree  of  trepidation.  Before  long  he  begins  to 
gain  more  possession  of  himself;  and  here  I  quote  the 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  313 

graphic  description  of  another:*  ''  He  speaks  more  de- 
hberately,  and  with  more  vigor.  He  warms  up  as  he 
proceeds,  and  the  congregation  shares  in  his  glow,  until 
a  thrill  of  tender  emotion  pervades  the  assembly.  He 
has  finished  his  first  observation ;  he  lowers  his  voice, 
shakes  himself  on  one  side,  and  begins  upon  his  second 
observation.  He  begins  this  again  somewhat  slowly  and 
deliberately ;  but  very  soon  he  speaks  more  rapidly, 
with  great  fluency  and  extraordinary  power;  his  eyes 
flash  through  the  church  ;  his  voice  is  raised ;  his  feel- 
ings are  set  on  fire,  the  people  catch  the  fire  ;  tears 
course  down  their  cheeks ;  the  warm  '  Amens '  pour  over 
their  lips,  preacher  and  people  are  in  happy  possession 
of  each  other.  He  finishes  his  second  observation.  He 
descends  gradually  again  to  the  quiet  deliberative  manner 
which  he  seems  to  regard  as  fitting  for  each  new  begin- 
ning. And  we  have  heard  it  remarked  more  than  once 
by  his  old  hearers,  that  he  never  appeared  to  better  ad- 
vantage as  a  speaker  than  when  thus  descending  from 
the  emotional  exaltation,  to  which  he  and  his  congrega- 
tion had  been  raised,  to  that  deliberateness  which  gave 
him  a  better  starting  point  for  another  ascent.  He  was 
never  seen  to  tumble  down,  but  descended  easily  and 
calmly,  retaining  all  his  energy  for  the  next  ascension. 
And  now  he  begins  to  rise  again,  and  to  carry  up  his 
audience  with  him.  Their  feelings  become  more  exalt- 
ed, more  intense,  more  ardent.  The  'Amens'  come 
oftener  and  louder  :  shouts  of  '  DiolcJi !  '  '  Bendigedig  !  ' 
^Gogoniant! '  ('Thanks  !  '  '  Blessed  ! '  'Glory  ! ')  are  heard 
in  every  corner  of  the  house,  and  the  whole  congrega- 
tion, in  a  delightful  frame,  is  tasting  of  the  joy  of  sal- 
vation. 


"*Dr.  Owen  Thomas,  in  his  Historical  Sketch  of  the  Welsh  Pulpit, 
published  in  his  Life  of  Rev.  John  Jones,  Tal  y  sarn,  to  which  I  am 
especially  indebted  for  valuable  material  respecting  the  early  Welsh 
Preachers. 


314  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

"  But  the  preacher  checks  himself  again  ;  he  descends 
once  more,  if  anything  more  gently  and  beautifully  than 
before,  and  he  gives  his  hearers  a  few  seconds'  respite 
that  they  may  come  down  with  him.  But  the  end  is 
not  yet.  He  starts  again,  and  mounts  up  higher,  higher, 
HIGHER.  And  now  there  is  something  awful  about 
his  appearance.  His  eyes  are  aflame,  his  voice  quivers, 
his  face  shines  ;  his  whole  body  seems  to  be  inspired ; 
that  great  soul  pours  itself  forth,  a  torrent  of  living  elo- 
quence— thoughts  of  fire,  setting  on  fire  the  whole  con- 
gregation, and  kindling,  strange  experiences  of  rejoicing 
and  praise.  His  voice  is  now  lost  in  the  shoutings  and 
songs  of  the  multitude,  and  in  the  tumult  which  follows 
he  ends  his  sermon,  nobody  knows  just  where  or  how, 
and  hastens  away  to  rest,  the  throng  remaining  to  shout 
and  sing  for  hours." 

I  have  given  this  passage,  not  only  as  a  description  of 
Mr.  Rowlands,  but  as  a  vivid  illustration  of  the  law  of 
movement  and  climax  in  Welsh  preaching,  to  which  we 
shall  have  frequent  occasion  to  refer. 

The  description  just  given  presents  the  preacher  of 
Llangeitho,  of  course,  at  his  best;  but  the  occasions 
when  he  reaches  that  altitude  were  by  no  means  unfre- 
quent.  The  testimony  to  his  pulpit  power  is  strong 
and  universal.  Howel  Harris,  who  had  often  heard 
Whitfield  and  Wesley,  said  of  him:  *'His  powder  and 
gifts  surpassed  any  one  I  have  ever  known.  God  is  so 
manifestly  with  him  that  I  believe  the  old  dragon  trembles 
wherever  he  goes."  Another  eminent  minister,  Rev. 
D.  Jones,  Llangana,  a  correspondent  of  Lady  Hunting- 
ton, said  in  a  letter:  "  Unquestionably  he  is  the  greatest 
preacher  in  Europe." 

One  of  Mr.  Rowlands'  contemporaries,  and  a  man  of 
whom  he  himself  entertained  an  extraordinary  opinion, 
was  Dafydd   Morris,  Lledrod,     He    possessed   a  most 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  315 

wonderful  voice ;  and  he  was,  besides,  a  preacher  of 
great  originality,  and  at  times  of  tremendous  power. 
One  of  his  noted  sermons  was  called  ''The  Sermon  of 
the  Great  Loss"  {Pregcth  y  Golled  Fawj),  the  effects 
accompanying  which  were  most  remarkable. 

He  was  eclipsed,  however,  by  the  greater  celebrity 
of  his  son,  Ebenezer  Morris,  Twrgwyn.  He  was  by 
no  means  as  careful  a  composer  as  Mr.  Rowlands;  the 
constant  requisitions  for  his  services  made  this  impos- 
sible. He  preached,  as  a  rule,  three  times  every  Sun- 
day, and  every  day  of  the  week  except  Monday  and 
Saturday.  But  such  was  the  dignity  of  his  presence, 
the  grandeur  of  his  character,  the  loftiness  of  his  per- 
sonality, and  the  impressiveness  with  which  he  presented 
the  truth,  that  very  few  have  ever  surpassed  him  in 
pulpit  power.  Rev.  John  Elias  testified  of  him,  that  he 
had  never  heard  of  any  one  to  compare  with  him,  and 
that  it  would  pay  to  hold  an  Association  every  week,  so  as 
to  get  Ebenezer  Morris  to  preach  in  it.  Like  his  father, 
he  too  had  an  incomparable  voice.  Dr.  William  Rees 
once  asked  Dr.  Owen  Thomas  if  he  remembered  Eben- 
ezer Morris.  ''No,"  was  the  answer.  "Then  you 
have  never  heard  VOICE. "  He  had  also  a  most  wonder- 
ful smile.  He  was  preaching  once  at  the  Carnarvon- 
shire Association  from  the  words :  "It  is  the  blood 
(Welsh  version :  this  blood)  that  maketh  an  atonement 
for  the  soul."  When  he  came  to  speak  of  the  salva- 
tion through  this  blood,  having  reached  the  climax  of 
his  argument,  he  began  to  shout  the  words,  this  blood, 
in  Welsh :  y  gwaed  hwn,  y  givaed  hwn,  y  gwaed  hwn, 
Y  GWAED  HWN,  six  or  seven  times,  raising  his 
voice  higher  and  higher  with  each  repetition  of  the 
phrase,  while  his  face  was  lit  up  with  an  angelic  smile, 
the  whole   effect   beincr   indescribable  and  never  to  be 

o 

forgotten.     ' '  That  smile, "  said  an  eminent  minister  who 


3l6  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

was  there,  Michael  Roberts,  Pwllheh,   ''was  what  slew 
men." 

A  remarkable  constellation  of  preachers  appeared  in 
Carnarvonshire,  North  Wales,  during  the  latter  half  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  One  of  these  was  Mr.  John 
Jones  (Edeyrn,)  who  had  been  converted  under  the 
preaching  of  Dafydd  Morris,  and  who  came  to  be  one 
of  the  most  eloquent  and  powerful  preachers  of  the  day. 
Dr.  Thomas  states  it  as  a  probable  fact  that  for  twenty- 
five  years  in  succession  he  was  one  of  the  "Ten  o'clock 
preachers"  at  the  Bala  Association,  the  highest  compli- 
ment a  Welsh  Calvinistic  Methodist  preacher  could  en- 
joy. He  was  noted  for  the  combination,  not  uncommon 
in  the  Welsh  pulpit,  of  the  most  sparkling  wit  with  the 
most  Impressive  earnestness. 

Evan  Richardson,  of  Carnarvon,  was  a  genuine 
*' son  of  consolation. "  His  tongue  dropped  honey ;  his 
preaching  was  most  tender,  gracious  and  winning. 
Once  when  John  Elias  was  shaking  his  congregation 
with  the  Sinai  thunder  of  his  eloquence,  a  man  was 
heard  to  cry  aloud  in  the  agony  of  his  soul,  "Oh,  for 
five  minutes  of  Evan  Richardson  !  "  He  was  a  teacher 
and  a  fair  scholar ;  and  an  interesting  fact  respecting  him 
is  that  on  learning  that  some  of  his  quondam  pupils  in 
the  ministry  had  learned  Hebrew,  he,  when  in  his  fifth 
decade,  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  that  language, 
and  made  no  mean  proficiency  in  it. 

The  most  brilliant  star  of  the  group,  however,  and 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  speakers  who  have  ever 
appeared  In  the  pulpit,  was  Robert  Roberts,  Clynog. 
He  died  at  the  early  age  of  forty,  but  the  impression 
he  made  was  something  marvelous.  He  was  deformed 
and  sickly  in  his  appearance;  but  his  singular  intensity, 
his  whole  frame  trembling  with  the  passion  of  his 
theme,   his  unrivaled  power  of  expressing  varied   feel- 


THE   WELSH    PULPIT.  31/ 

ings  by  look,  voice,  feature,  and  gesture,  the  preter- 
natural lightning  of  his  eye,  his  extraordinary  skill  in 
word-painting,  made  him  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
orators  of  the  Welsh  pulpit.  On  one  occasion,  when, 
to  use  the  graphic  language  of  an  old  deacon  who  heard 
him,  ' '  heaven  was  pouring  itself  down  on  his  head  and 
the  heads  of  his  hearers,"  Mr.  Roberts  seemed  unable 
any  longer  to  contain  the  fullness  of  the  glory  which 
overwhelmed  him,  and  suddenly  turning  his  face  to  the 
wall  back  of  the  pulpit,  he  exclaimed:  "Hold,  Lord! 
remember  that  I  am  flesh  ;  remember  that  I  can  not  hold 
too  much  !  "  and  then,  facing  the  congregation,  he  shout- 
ed at  the  highest  pitch  of  a  voice  of  remarkable  range, 
"  Gogoniant  (Glory)  for  the  hope  of  a  morning  when  I 
shall  hold  my  full  of  Deity,  without  cracking  forever !  " 

Two  school-boys  once  went  to  hear  him  preach,  one 
of  whom,  named  Elias  Parry,  was  familiar  with  Welsh 
preaching,  the  -  other  not.  When  Mr.  Roberts  had 
reached  the  climax  of  his  discourse,  the  whole  assembly 
being  electrified;  some  fainting,  some  crying  out,  and 
the  preacher,  with  a  voice  like  God's  trumpet,  thrilling 
the  place  through  and  through,  the  young,  strange  lad 
turned  to  Elias  Parry  and  asked  him,  his  face  pale  as  a 
corpse,  *'Is  he  a  man  or  an  angel?"  ''Why,"  said 
Parry,  somewhat  roguishly,  ''an  angel,  didn't  you 
know  ?  "  "No,  indeed,  I  didn't  know.  Great  Heaven ! 
but  how  much  better  an  angel  preaches  than  a  man, 
doesn't  he?  " 

On  one  occasion  he  was  describing  the  perils  to 
which  sinners  are  exposed,  comparing  their  situations  to 
that  of  men  amusing  themselves  on  a  bar  on  the  sea- 
shore during  the  ebbing  of  the  tide.  Absorbed  in  pleas- 
ure, they  forgot  all  about  their  position.  In  the  mean- 
time the  tide  has  turned,  the  waters  have  well-nigh 
surrounded  them;    there  is  but  one  way  of  escape — a 


3l8  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

narrow  tongue  of  land  in  the  distance,  which  grows 
narrower  every  minute.  Their  danger  has  now  become 
apparent  to  those  on  shore,  and  some  one  shouts  to 
them  with  a  loud  voice,  that  they  are  in  extreme  peril, 
that  there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose,  that  in  a  few  sec- 
onds the  sea  will  be  upon  them,  and  they  will  be  lost 
beyond  redemption.  "Flee,  Flee,  Flee,"  shouted  the 
preacher  in  clear,  ringing  tones.  So  vivid  had  been  his 
description  of  the  scene,  and  so  startling,  so  electric 
Avas  the  voice  in  which  he  had  called  out  the  command 
to  flee,  that  the  congregation  in  alarm  sprung  to  their 
feet  and  rushed  out  of  the  house,  crying  for  their  Hves. 
The  greater  number  presently  returned,  and  were  pre- 
pared to  listen  in  deep  solemnity  to  the  preacher's 
appeal  to  "flee  from  the  wrath  to  come." 

Ebenezer  Morris  once  said:  "  If  I  had  died  without 
hearing  Robert  Roberts,  of  Clynog,  preach,  I  should  have 
died  without  any  such  conception  as  I  -now  have  of  the 
glory  of  the  ministry  of  the  Gospel." 

IL    CHRISTMAS    EVANS. 

Robert  Roberts  of  Clynog,  whom  we  last  considered 
as  a  representative  of  the  Welsh  pulpit,  has  a  special 
claim  on  our  recognition,  apart  from  his  unique  person- 
ality and  power.  He  it  was  who  interpreted  Christmas 
Evans  to  himself.  When  the  latter  was  asked,  if  he 
could  give  an  account  of  what  led  him  into  his  peculiar 
way  of  preaching,  he  replied:  "Yes,  I  can, — partly 
at  least.  I  had  the  ideas  before,  but  somehow  I  could 
not  get  at  them.  When  I  was  in  Lleyn,  the  Methodists 
had  a  man  of  the  name  of  Robert  Roberts,  of  Llanlly- 
fni,  who  was  very  popular,  and  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  talk  about  him.  Well,  I  went  on  one  Sunday  after- 
noon to  hear  him.      He  was  one  of  the  most  insignifi- 


THE   WELSH    PULPIT.  3I9 

cant  persons  I  ever  saw ;  a  little  hunch-backed  man, 
but  he  neither  thought  nor  said  anything  like  other 
people  ;  there  was  something  wonderful  and  uncommon 
about  him.      TJiis  Robert  Robei'ts  gave  me  the  key.'' 

Christmas  Evans,  the  best  known  of  Welsh  preacher 
outside  of  Wales,  was  born  on  Christmas  day,  1766,  in 
the  depths  of  poverty.  His  father,  a  shoemaker,  dying 
while  Christmas  was  yet  a  child,  he  was  hired  out,  at 
the  age  of  nine,  as  a  farmer's  boy.  At  the  age  of 
eighteen  he  had  never  been  to  school,  and  did  not 
know  one  letter  of  the  alphabet.  About  that  time  he 
was  converted  and  forthwith  learned  to  read  his  Bible. 
Soon  he  began  to  exhort,  his  talents  at  once  shone 
forth,  and  before  long  he  entered  the  ministry.  His 
ministerial  outfit  consisted  of  a  wife,  who  proved  a  no- 
ble helpmate,  a  Bible,  Burkitt  on  the  New  Testament, 
and  a  Welsh  and  English  Dictionary,  which  he  bor- 
rowed to  help  him  through  the  hard  words  in  Burkitt. 
His  study  was  his  bed,  over  which  he  sprawled  with 
his  huge  form,  with  his  books  around  him.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-five  he  went  to  live  in  Anglesea  to  take 
the  oversight  of  the  Baptist  churches  on  that  island, 
which  is  also  one  of  the  counties  of  Wales.  For  twenty 
years  he  labored  on  a  salary  of  £1^  a  year.  It  was 
then  advanced  to  ;^2i  a  year.  He  got  in  addition  a  few 
pounds  more  for  his  books  and  from  outside  preaching. 
The  largest  amount  he  ever  received  in  one  year  was 
about  ^40,  or  ;^200. 

He  was  a  large  man,  about  six  feet  high,  with  an 
immense  head,  and  one  eye  prominent,  large,  luminous ; 
"an  eye,  sir,"  as  Robert  Hall  said,  "  that  might  light 
an  army  through  the  wilderness."  He  was  a  natural 
orator,  fluent  and  brilliant  in  speech,  a  master  of  met- 
aphor, wit  and  sarcasm.  A  brother  minister,  Mr.  Her- 
ing  by  name,  once  met  him  on  a  summer  day  on  top  of 


320  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

a  mountain  which  they  were  crossing  in  the  opposite  di- 
rections. "Dear  me,"  said  Mr.  Hering,  "What  a 
strange  thing  to  see  Christmas  in  midsummer."  *'  Not 
a  bit  more  strange,"  was  the  reply,  ''than  to  see  a 
living  Hering  on  the  top  of  a  mountain." 

As  a  preacher,  his  most  remarkable  characteristic  was 
his  imaginative  faculty,  which  was  truly  oriental  in 
luxuriance  and  range.  Like  John  Bunyan,  he  was  a 
born  speaker  of  parables.  His  conceptions  spontane- 
ously arranged  themselves  in  allegories.  Truth  was  a 
drama,  in  constant  living  action  before  his  mind.  The 
facts  and  forces  of  the  gospel  took  the  form  in  his 
preaching  of  vivid  personification.  The  most  favorable 
specimen  of  his  genius  is  the  well-known  "  Allegory  of 
the  graveyard."  It  has  often  been  published  in  English, 
with  more  or  less  variation.  The  following  version  rep- 
resents most  faithfully,  perhaps,  its  genuine  form.* 

"I  imagined  that  I  saw  a  vast,  immense  graveyard, 
in  which  were  lying  the  numberless  hosts  of  Adam's 
posterity.  The  place  was  full  of  deadly  caverns,  and  a 
dense  cloud  overhung  it,  so  that  no  light  of  sun  or  of 
moon,  or  of  candle  was  to  be  seen  there.  The  gates 
were  a  thousand  times  stronger  than  castle"  gates  of 
brass,  and  were  locked  up  by  Divine  Justice  with  death- 
less bars  and  locks,  so  that  no  hope  remained  of  escape 
from  that  dark  enclosure."      'In  Adam  all  die.'" 

"With  the  breath  of  dawn,  lo !  Mercy  came  down 
from  the  heaven  of  heavens  in  the  chariot  of  the  early 
morning  promise,  and  with  her  a  person  like  unto  the 
Son  of  Man,  the  Seed  of  the  Woman.  Mercy  called 
at  the  iron  portal  of  death,  saying:  *0  Justice,  my 
brother !  thou  art  here  keeping  watch  over  this  place  of 

*The  version  here  given  is  translated  directly  from  the  Welsh  ver- 
sion in  "  Allegorian  Christinas  Evans,"  edited  by  the  accurate  Welsh 
scholar,  Rev.  Robert  Evans,  ( Cynddelw. ) 


THE   WELSH    PULPIT.  321 

burial,  and  thou  hast  sealed  the  gravestone  with  the  seal 
of  God.'  'Yes,  what  wouldest  thou,  Mercy,  my  sister?' 
*  My  request  is  that  I  may  have  leave  to  come  in  to  the 
inhabitants  of  this  graveyard.  If  leave  were  granted  I 
would  cause  this  accursed  place  to  wear  the  look  of  life 
instead  of  death.'  *  Understand  me,  my  sister,'  said 
Justice:  '  I  know  that  by  reason  of  thy  love  for  Justice 
thou  canst  not  break  these  locks,  neither  can  I  open  the 
door  ;  not  that  I  am  wroth  with  the  wretched  inmates 
of  the  place,  but  that  I  love  the  law  of  God. '  '  With- 
out shedding  of  blood  there  is  no  remission.'  " 

"Then  Mercy  lifted  up  her  bright  countenance,  one 
sight  of  which  had  been  enough  to  make  hope  alive 
through  the  graveyard,  and  the  Seed  of  the  Woman 
stood  by  her  side.  'Justice,  my  brother!  wilt  thou  ac- 
cept a  surety  until  the  time  comes  for  that  blood  to  be 
poured,  that  the  gates  of  death  may  be  opened  to  me, 
and  that  I  may  have  access  to  those  imprisoned  there?  ' 
'  I  will,'  said  Justice,  '  if  only  he  be  a  near  enough  kins- 
man both  of  the  lawgiver,  and  of  the  inmates  of  the 
graveyard,  and  be  offered  up  on  a  tree  within  this  in- 
closure. '  " 

''Then  the  Seed  of  the  Woman  came  forward  and 
said:  'Wilt  thou  accept  me  as  surety?'  Justice  looked 
closely  at  him  and  said:  '  Yes,  willingly  ;  and  for  myr- 
iads more,  if  need  be  ;  for  thou  hast  been  brought  up 
in  the  court  of  the  Lawgiver  from  all  eternity ;  and 
thou  shalt  be  the  Seed  of  the  Woman,  I  see  thy  bloody 
heel'  'Justice,  what  are  thy  demands?'  'Humiliation 
for  exaltation,  life  for  life  and  death  for  death.'  'Be- 
hold, '  said  the  Seed  of  the  Woman,  '  I  strike  my  hand 
in  thy  hand,  and  I  write  my  name  in  the  roll  of  the 
book  which  I  now  give  to  thee,  as  a  pledge  that  I  will 
pay  thee  on  the  tree  a  ransom  greater  than  the  world's 
iniquity.     And  do   thou   give    Mercy  the  key  of  the 


^22  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

graveyard.  Tell  me,  O  thou  heaven's  great  Justice, 
what  time  shall  I  specify  in  the  bond  which  I  give  in 
the  name  of  all  my  churches  ?  when  shall  I  appear  as 
one  of  the  inmates  of  death's  graveyard?'  'In  four 
thousand  years  from  the  time  when  its  gates  were 
barred. '  *  So  be  it,  I  am  content ;  here  I  give  thee  the 
promise,  written  with  my  own  hand  :  '  Lo,  I  come  !' 
Here  is  one  copy  for  thee  to  keep  in  tl:e  great  hall  of 
Justice,  and  another  copy  for  the  patriarchs  and  the 
prophets,  and  for  Moses,  supervisor-in-chief  of  the 
wTit.'  'Behold  I  too,'  said  Justice,  'give  Mercy  the 
key  of  the  graveyard. '  '  And  in  order  to  show  the 
nature  of  the  payment  which  I  shall  make,  and  the 
need  of  the  same,  and  in  order  to  produce  in  my 
Church  faith  and  expectation  for  the  year  of  redemption 
to  this  graveyard,  I  set  up  the  ceremonial  law  in  my 
name,  to  foreshadow  me  in  its  sacrifices  and  feasts  of 
the  atonement,  to  make  mention  of  sins,  and  to  exhibit 
the  true  sacrifice,  and  that  my  purpose  shall  know  no 
change.'  " 

"  The  fire  which  consumed  the  sacrifices  of  Israel 
had  fallen  in  the  first  instance  from  heaven,  as  a  token 
of  God's  avenging  wrath  against  sin  ;  and  the  blood 
that  was  offered  was  a  token  that  nothing  could  quench 
the  curse  of  the  law  but  the  blood  of  Jesus  Christ. 
Great  and  long  was  the  contest  between  the  fire  and 
the  blood  on  the  altars  of  Israel;  but  the  myriads  of 
dumb  creatures,  whose  blood  was  poured  into  the  flames 
of  the  altar,  had  neither  power  nor  virtue,  nor  worth 
to  extinguish  their  fire.  It  turned  the  heads  that  were 
offered  into  a  handful  of  worthless  ashes  under  the  rim 
of  the  great  altar." 

"But  in  the  fulness  of  the  time  the  Messiah  was  born 
of  one  of  the  daughters  of  the  graveyard.  He  ap- 
peared within  its  bounds  as  the  Lamb  of  God,  and  the 


THE   WELSH    PULPIT.  323 

fourteenth  day  came,  on  which  he  was  to  be  caught, 
and  brought  to  the  altar.  He  was  caught  in  Gethse- 
mane,  he  submitted  to  be  led  as  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter. 
The  altar  was  set  up,  not  in  the  precincts  of  the  temple, 
but  without  the  gates  of  Jerusalem,  on  the  hill  of  the 
skulls  of  the  dead.  He  himself  was  priest,  and  victim, 
and  altar.  He  was  bound  to  the  horns  of  the  altar 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  day  to  be  remem- 
bered forever.  The  fire  took  hold  upon  him  as  a 
deadly  plague,  saying :  *  Justice  am  I  ;  I  will  spare  no 
one;  justice  will  I  have.  I  have  burned  myriads  of 
the  lambs  of  Israel ;  and  unless  I  am  extinguished  in 
burning  the  Lamb  of  God,  which  taketh  away  the  sin 
of  the  world,  I  will  burn  the  entire  graveyard,  souls 
and  bodies,  down  to  the  lowest  hell.'  " 

''The  consuming  flames  of  the  curse  continued  to 
devour  and  to  swallow  and  to  burn,  and  the  blood 
continued  to  drop  into  the  midst  of  the  flames,  so  that 
some  began  to  think  that  the  fire  would  prevail.  From 
the  sixth  hour  to  the  ninth  the  violence  of  the  conflict 
transcended  all  comparison  ;  and  at  the  critical  hour  of 
victory,  all  was  silence  upon  the  mount.  But  at  three 
in  the  afternoon,  when  the  avenging  fire  had  burned 
its  way  through  all  the  feelings  of  the  humanity,  // 
touched  the  altar  of  deity,  and  then  it  expired.  The  sun 
became  black  with  astonishment,  the  rocks  cleaved, 
the  earth  trembled,  the  graves  were  opened,  the  dead 
arose ;  for  they  saw  God  in  the  nature  of  man  dying  on 
a  tree." 

''There  had  been  in  the  old  sacrifices  only  a  re- 
minder of  sin,  with  nothing  paid ;  but  Jesus  appeared 
according  to  the  agreement.  He  was  seen  with  the 
bag  of  gold  on  his  back  walking  from  Gethsemane 
through  the  streets  of  Jerusalem,  to  face  the  bond,  the 
handwriting  which  he,  with  his  own  signature,  had  en- 


3^4  LLEWELYN    10 AN    EVANS. 

gaged  to  pay.  He  cried  out  before  the  office  of  Jus- 
tice :  *  My  father,  the  hour  is  come ;  here  is  the  bag 
of  gold,  and  here  I  pour  its  contents  on  the  great  table 
of  account.'  'Enough,  my  son!  I  have  received  sat- 
isfaction, and  here  is  the  handwriting  that  was  against 
thy  people ;  I  give  it  up  to  thee.  It  shall  no  longer 
remain  in  the  office  of  Moses  and  Sinai ;  take  it,  and 
do  what  thou  wilt  with  it.'  " 

"And  what  did  he  do  with  the  handwriting?  did  he 
tear  it  up,  and  cast  it  to  the  wind  or  bury  it  in  the 
earth  ?  Ah,  no !  He  put  it  in  a  place  far  more  secure, 
he  nailed  it  to  the  cross  ;  when  he  left  the  cross,  he 
nailed  the  bond  there  in  his  place  ;  and  he  gave  the 
cross  to  his  twelve  apostles,  and  to  all  his  true  ministers 
to  carry  it  through  the  world,  with  the  bond  nailed  to 
it,  and  the  debt  all  paid.  It  is  no  more  Jesus  that  is 
on  the  cross,  but  the  old  debt  that  was  against  us,  and 
written  under  it  the  words :  *  This  debt  was  paid  on 
Golgotha.'  " 

In  the  same  manner  that  the  allegory  of  the  grave- 
yard exhibits  the  idealistic  side  of  his  imagination,  his 
description  of  the  healing  of  the  demoniac  of  Gadara 
may  be  instanced  as  exhibiting  its  realistic  side  in  the 
vivid,  graphic,  often  humorous,  portraiture  of  human 
events.  Having  detailed  the  preliminary  facts  of  the 
narrative,  he  goes  on  to  say:  'Jesus  commanded  the 
legion  of  unclean  spirits  to  go  forth  out  of  the  man. 
They  knew  that  they  would  have  to  go  ;  but  they  were 
like  some  Irishmen,  they  were  very  unwilling  to  go 
back  to  their  own  country,  and  for  that  reason  Christ 
suffered  them  to  go  into  the  herd  of  swine.  T  can 
imagine  one  of  the  swine-herds,  who  kept  a  sharper 
eye  on  the  swine  than  the  rest,  saying :  '  What's  the 
matter  with  the  swine  ?  look  sharp  on  that  side,  boys ! 
keep  them  in !  make  the  best  use  of  your  whips  !  why 


THE   WELSH    PULPIT.  325 

do  you  stop  running  ?  do  you  know  what  ?  as  true  as 
I'm  alive  one  of  them  has  got  over  the  edge  of  the 
rock.  There  !  there  is  another  !  Morgan,  run  away  off 
there  !  Drive  them  back,  Tom  !  '  There  never  was 
such  running;  but  down  went  the  swine  headlong,  in 
spite  of  themselves.  One  of  them  says  :  '  they  are  gone, 
every  head  of  them.'  'No!  is  it  possible?  every  one 
of  them  into  the  sea  ? '  '  Yes,  every  single  one  of  them. 
If  the  devil  ever  was  in  anything  in  the  world,  he  must 
have  got  into  those  swine. '  *  What ! '  says  Jack,  '  is 
that  splendid  black  pig  gone  too?'  'Yes,  yes;  I  saw 
him  galloping  down  the  hillside  over  yonder,  as  though 
old  Satan  himself  were  riding  him  ;  I  saw  the  tip  of  his 
tail  sink  out  of  sight  for  the  last  time  among  the  angry 
billows  down  below. ' 

"  'What  shall  we  say  to  our  masters?'  said  Tom  to 
Morgan.  '  What  can  we  say  !  we  must  tell  the  truth ; 
that  is  all  there  is  about  it.  We  have  done  our  best, 
all  that  could  be  done ;  what  more  could  anybody  do  ? ' 
and  so  they  start  for  the  city  to  tell  their  masters  what 
has  happened.  '  Jack  !  where  are  you  going  ? '  shouts 
one  of  the  masters.  '  Sir,  did  you  know  the  demoniac 
that  used  to  live  among  the  tombs  ?  '  '  Where  did  you 
leave  the  swine  ?  '  '  That  crazy  man,  sir,  of  whom 
*  missis  '  used  to  be  so  much  afraid. '  '  Crazy  man  ? 
why  are  you  coming  home  without  the  swine  ?  '  *  He 
used  to  rave  and  yell,  and  cut  himself  with  stones.' 
'  Pooh  pooh  !  I'm  asking  you  a  plain  question.  Jack, 
and  why  don't  you  answer  me?  where  are  the  swine  ?  ' 
'  That  man  that  was  possessed  with  devils,  sir ! '  '  Surely 
you  haven't  lost  the  little  sense  you  had,  you  look  very 
wild,  tell  your  story  if  you  can,  be  it  what  it  may.' 
'Jesus  Christ,  sir,  has  cast  the  unclean  spirits  out  of 
the  demoniac,  and  they  have  gone  into  the  swine,  and 
the  swine  are  drowned  every  one  in  the  sea,  for  I  saw 


'326  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

the  last  one's  tail  as  he  disappeared.  Now  master,  that 
is  the  truth,  you  can  depend  on  it.'  " 

''The  Gadarencs  went  out  to  see  what  had  taken 
place,  and  they  came  to  Jesus,  and  found  the  man  out 
of  whom  the  demons  had  been  cast,  sitting,  clothed 
and  in  his  right  mind,  at  the  feet  of  Jesus  ;  and  they 
feared  and  besought  Jesus  to  go  away  from  them. 
Who  can  tell  how  fearful  is  the  condition  of  those  who 
love  the  things  of  this  world  above  the  Son  of  God!  " 

Having  proceeded  with  the  story  he  reaches  the  point 
where  the  demoniac  returns  to  his  home.  "As  soon 
as  he  comes  within  sight  of  the  house,  I  imagine  that 
I  see  one  of  the  children  running  in  and  saying :  '  O 
mother!  father  is  coming;  he  will  kill  every  one  of  us.* 
'  Children, '  says  the  mother,  *  come  into  the  house  every 
one  of  you,  and  let  us  fasten  the  doors.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  anybody  ever  had  such  sorrow  as  mine ;'  and 
she  feels  as  though  her  heart  would  break.  'Are  the 
windows  all  safe,  children  ?  '  '  Yes,  mother.'  '  Mary, 
my  dear  child,  come  out  of  the  window,  do  not  stay 
there. '  '  Why,  mother !  I  can  scarcely  believe  that 
that  is  father;  that  man  has  such  nice  clothes  on  him.' 
'  O  yes,  my  dear  children,  it  is  your  father ;  I  knew 
him  by  his  walk  the  moment  I  saw  him.'  Another 
child  who  had  gone  to  the  Avindow  to  look  out,  says  : 
"  Do  you  know  what,  mother,  I  never  saw  father  com- 
ing back  as  he  is  doing  to-day.  He  comes  round  the 
turn  of  the  hedge,  and  past  the  wall;  he  always  used 
to  come  on  a  straight  line,  over  ditches  and  hedges  and 
walls,  and  I  never  saw  him  walk  as  slowly  as  to-day.'  " 

"  In  a  few  seconds  he  reaches  the  door  of  the  house, 
to  the  great  consternation  of  all  who  are  within.  He 
tries  quietly  and  deliberately  to  open  the  door ;  but  he 
can  not.  He  pauses  and  thinks  for  a  moment ;  he  goes 
to  the  window,  and  he  says  in  a  low,  firm,  persuasive 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  32/ 

voice  :  *  My  dear  wife,  if  you  will  let  me  in,  there  is  no 
danger;  I  will  do  you  no  harm,  but  I  will  bring  you  glad 
tidings  of  great  joy.'  The  door  is  opened  slowly,  in  part 
willingly,  and  in  part  unwillingly,  between  fear  and  joy, 
and  having  sat  down,  he  begins  to  speak  and  says :  '  I 
want  to  tell  you  of  the  great  things  which  God  has  done 
for  me.  He  has  loved  me  with  an  everlasting  love.  He 
has  redeemed  me  from  the  curse  of  the  law;  he  has 
saved  me  from  the  power  and  dominion  of  sin  ;  he  has 
cast  the  unclean  spirits  out  of  my  heart,  and  has  made 
the  heart  which  was  a  den  of  thieves  a  temple  of  the 
Holy  Ghost.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  great  is  my  love 
for  the  Saviour.  Jesus  Christ  is  the  foundation  of  my 
hope,  the  object  of  my  faith  and  the  centre  of  my  affec- 
tions; I  can  venture  my  immortal  soul  on  him  ;  he  is  my 
best  friend  ;  he  is  altogether  lovely,  and  the  chiefest 
among  ten  thousand ;  he  is  my  wisdom,  my  righteous- 
ness, my  sanctification,  and  my  redemption ;  there  is 
enough  in  him  to  make  a  poor  sinner  rich,  and  a  miser- 
able sinner  happy ;  his  flesh  and  blood  are  my  food,  his 
righteousness  is  my  marriage  robe,  his  blood  cleanseth 
me  from  all  my  sins ;  through  him  I  can  attain  unto  life 
eternal,  for  he  is  the  brightness  of  the  Father's  glory, 
and  the  express  image  of  his  person,  in  whom  all  the 
fullness  of  the  Godhead  dwells  bodily ;  he  is  worthy  of 
my  highest  reverence  and  of  my  warmest  praise.  To 
him  who  loved  me  with  an  everlasting  love,  and  has 
washed  me  in  his  own  blood,  to  him  be  the  glory,  the  do- 
minion and  the  might  forever  and  ever.'  Who  can  con- 
ceive the  happiness  and  rejoicing  of  the  family  ?  The  joy 
of  the  mariner  who  has  been  saved  from  shipwreck,  the 
joy  of  one  who  has  been  rescued  out  of  a  burning  habi- 
tation, the  joy  of  the  prisoner  in  the  court  of  justice 
who  has  been  acquitted  and  released,  the  joy  of  the  con- 
demned criminal  who  obtains  pardon,    the  joy  of  the 


328  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

captured  soldier,  when  he  is  set  free — all  such  joy  is  as 
nothing  when  compared  with  the  joy  of  the  man  who 
has  been  saved  from  going  down  into  the  pit  of  eternal 
destruction,  for  it  is  a  joy  unspeakable  and  full  of 
glory." 

While  a  rigid  analysis  would  find  in  such  representa- 
tions many  anachronisms  and  incongruities,  their  dra- 
matic vividness  and  practical  effectiveness  are  undeniable. 
In  the  swift  and  easy  transition  from  the  wit  and  humor 
of  the  introductory  part  of  the  description  to  the  elo- 
quence and  pathos  of  the  conclusion  we  have  a  distinct 
characteristic  of  no  small  part  of  the  preaching  heard  in 
the  Welsh  pulpit. 

in.    WILLIAMS,    OF  WERN;    JOHN  ELIAS;    HENRY  REES. 

Christmas  Evans  was  one  of  a  trio  of  contemporaries, 
who,  at  the  opening  of  this  century,  were  the  stars  of 
the  Welsh  pulpit.  Another  of  the  trio  was  William 
WiUiams,  of  Wern,  a  minister  of  the  Independent  de- 
nomination. He  was  of  a  very  different  type  from 
Christmas  Evans.  The  cast  of  his  mind  was  philo- 
sophical. He,  too,  possessed  imagination,  but  in 
the  language  of  Dr.  O.  Thomas,  "it  was  the  scientific 
imagination,  rather  than  the  poetic,  that  of  Bacon, 
rather  than  of  Milton."  There  was  in  his  sermons  a 
remarkable  combination  of  clear  and  vigorous  thought, 
with  lucid  and  felicitous  illustration.  So  perfect  were 
his  illustrations,  that  it  seemed  as  though  they  had 
an  existence  in  the  order  of  things,  on  purpose  to 
set  forth  the  truths  with  which  they  stood  asso- 
ciated. Reflection  made  his  hearers  feel  that  it  was 
the  truth  which  glorified  the  emblem,  and  not  the 
reverse.  He  was  unquestionably  a  worthy  peer  of  his 
brethren    in    the    trio,    and    I   take    peculiar    pleasure 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT. 


329 


In  paying  this  brief  tribute  to  his  memory,  remember- 
ing that  my  revered  grandfather,  Rev.  Robert  Roberts, 
of  Rhos,  was  his  nearest  ministerial  neighbor  and  dear- 
est bosom  friend. 

The  last  and  greatest  of  the  trio  was  John  Elias,  of 
Anglesea,  all  things  considered,  the  most  eminent  rep- 
resentative of  the  Welsh  pulpit,  and  one  of  the  half 
dozen  great  preachers  of  the  age.  He  began  to  preach 
at  the  age  of  twenty,  and  at  once  began  to  draw  upon 
himself  the  attention  of  the  public.  He  was  a  born 
orator  to  begin  with,  and  all  through  his  life  he  made 
preaching  a  matter  of  the  most  thorough  and  conscien- 
tious culture.  He  Is  a  conspicuous  example  of  the  suc- 
cess with  which  the  art  of  preaching  may  be  studied  and 
practiced,  and  a  striking  confirmation  of  the  truth  that 
the  best  and  truest  art  neither  hides  nor  weakens,  nor 
Injures  nature.  The  one  fault  which  Intelligent  criticism 
has  found  with  his  preaching  Is  that,  too  often,  in  un- 
folding the  manifold  contents  of  his  text,  his  discourses 
lacked  the  most  complete  and  effective  unity. 

He  had  a  tall,  lithe,  straight  frame,  made  up  of  bone 
and  sinew,  dark  complexion,  high  cheek-bones,  grayish- 
blue  eyes  of  intense  and  fiery  expression,  strong,  reso- 
lute mouth  and  jaw,  and  preeminently  a  look  to  threaten 
or  command.  I  have  heard  my  good  old  father  say 
that  his  look,  his  aspect,  mastered  the  congregation  from 
the  very  first,  and  held  every  man  by  a  spell  which  he 
could  not  resist.  His  voice  was  strong  and  penetrative, 
''the  best  speaking  voice,"  It  has  been  said,  that  has 
perhaps  ever  been  heard  in  the  pulpit,  although  some- 
what harsh  when  at  its  loudest  pitch.  His  mastery  of 
it  was  perfect,  although  his  power  was  greatest  when  he 
thundered. 

When  under  the  full  inspiration  of  his  theme,  he  was 
like  a  volcano,   burning,   flashing,   thundering,  pouring 


330  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

out  lava-torrents  of  eloquence,  while  bolts  and  sparks  of 
fire  shot  far  and  wide.  It  was  like  standing  at  the  foot 
of  Sinai  to  listen  to  him  at  such  times.  It  was  on  such 
an  occasion,  doubtless,  that  the  cry  of  agony  already  re- 
ferred to  was  wrung  from  one  of  his  hearers — "  Oh  !  for 
five  minutes  of  Evan  Richardson  of  Carnarvon."  His 
gestures,  his  intonations,  his  pauses  even  and  his  silences, 
all  were  electric  with  soul.  "Even  his  stammering," 
says  one  of  the  many  elegies  upon  him,  *^was  a  chasm 
of  glorious  eloquence." 

*'  'Roedd  hyd  yn  nod  ei  attal-d'wedyd 

Yn  gyfwng  o  hyawdledd  cu.' — Ebe7i  Fcardd. 

Often  would  he  stand  for  seconds  struggling  with  the 
thought  to  be  uttered,  the  thought  meanwhile  working 
in  the  muscles  of  his  face,  and  in  the  quivering  of  his 
hands  and  fingers,  until  at  last  it  would  burst  forth  like 
a  torrent,  sweeping  all  before  it. 

His  power  to  give  reality  to  all  that  he  said  was  ex- 
traordinary. Two  boys  were  talking  together  after  an 
association  about  the  preachers.  ''Which  of  them  did 
you  like  best?"  said  one.  "John  Elias,  of  course," 
replied  the  other.  "  That's  so  !  "  said  the  first,  ''wasn't 
he  splendid?  Didn't  he  tell  it  well  about  Peter?  I  could 
just  see  Peter  standing  by  that  bridge  there."  Once  as 
he  was  preaching  on  Paul  before  Agrippa,  he  gave  such 
a  graphic  description  of  his  words,  his  looks,  his  attitude, 
the  chains  on  his  hands,  that  a  sailor  in  the  congrega- 
tion, much  excited,  cried  out:  "Fie!  Fie!  take  off 
those  chains  at  once  from  the  man's  hands!"  He 
talked,  in  fact,  all  over.  The  movement  of  his  body, 
now  swaying  back  and  forward,  now  swinging  partially 
as  on  a  pivot,  now  writhing  as  with  the  travail  of  thought, 
now  standing  firm  and  erect  as  a  pillar  of  granite,  while 
launching  out  some  terrific  thunderbolt,  then  suddenly 
hurling  himself  into  a  new  position,  all  was  tremendous- 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  33  I 

ly  effective.  His  gestures  were  infinite  in  variety  and 
expression.  The  action  of  his  index-finger  alone  was  a 
study  and  a  marvel ;  now  shaking  it  up  and  down,  now 
thrusting  it  forward,  now  poising  or  waving  it  aloft,  now 
describing  effective  arcs  of  thought  or  feeling. 

Add  to  this  the  sweep,  the  rush,  the  thrust,  the  blow 
of  the  sinewy  arm,  the  authoritative  stamp  of  the  foot — 
add  a  style  of  marvelous  fitness  for  popular  effect,  home- 
ly, plain,  at  the  same  time  pure,  strong,  nervous  Welsh 
from  the  granite  rock-bed  of  the  language — add  a  won- 
derful gift  in  fitting  such  words  together,  so  that  they 
would  strike  home — add  the  perfect  preaching  temper- 
ament with  its  instinctive  preception  of  the  tone,  the 
temper,  the  atmosphere  of  the  congregation,  and  the 
exact  point  at  which  to  get  the  mastery  of  it — add  a 
holy  audacity  which  shrank  from  no  lawful  expedient 
to  arouse  and  to  hold  the  people — over  and  above  all 
add  a  burning  passion  for  souls,  an  awful  intense  earn- 
estness which  had  in  it  all  the  solemnities  of  all  the 
eternities,  and  you  may  faintly  conceive  the  power  of 
the  man. 

His  popularity  was  immense.  Wherever  he  went  the 
multitude  thronged  to  hear  him.  No  matter  where,  no 
matter  when,  in  what  season  of  the  year,  on  what  day 
of  the  week,  on  what  hour  of  the  day,  his  audiences 
were  numbered  by  the  hundreds,  not  seldom  by  the 
thousands.  The  farms,  the  workshops,  the  mines,  the 
quarries,  the  warehouses,  the  kitchens,  all  were  emptied 
to  hear  John  Elias. 

In  their  written  form  his  sermons  had  nothing  very 
remarkable  about  them.  It  was  the  man  put  into  the 
sermon  which  made  it  what  it  was.  The  following 
sketch  of  an  exhortation  to  good  conduct  during  the 
session  of  the  Association  at  Holyhead,  in  1824,  from 
the  pen  of  Dr.  Thomas,  will  illustrate  some  of  his  char- 


332  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

acteristics,  and  the  irresistible  power  which  he  wielded 
over  the  multitude:  **  He  spoke,"  says  Dr.  Thomas, 
"  with  great  force  against  drunkenness  as  a  sin  which  always 
and  everywhere  degrades  man,  more  possibly  than  any 
other  sin,  but  he  dwelt  more  especially  on  its  heinous- 
ness  on  occasions  of  a  religious  convocation,  and  he 
hoped  that  there  was  no  one  there  who  could  take  ad- 
vantage of  such  a  gathering  to  bring  disgrace  on  their 
country,  on  themselves,  and  on  religion.  Are  there 
drunkards  here  ?  I  fear  that  there  are.  Let  me  entreat 
you  for  this  day,  at  least,  to  endeavor  to  exercise  proper 
self-control.  If  you  have  no  regard  for  Almighty  God, 
no  regard  for  your  country  and  laws,  no  respect  for 
yourselves — I  acknowledge  that  I  am  occupying  a  very 
low  plane  in  making  this  appeal — will  you  not  for  our 
sakes  behave  soberly  and  decently  to-day?  When  you 
come  to  a  meeting  like  this,  and  drink  and  get  drunk, 
and  are  disorderly,  you  break  our  character.  All  our 
enemies  are  not  yet  dead  in  the  land.  They  stand  ready 
to  use  everything  which  will  serve  their  purpose  to 
injure  us.  And  we  have  nothing  but  our  character  to 
fall  back  upon.  We  are  not  rich — we  are  not  learned — 
we  are  not  gifted — we  have  no  titles — we  have  no  one 
among  us  high  in  authority.  But  we  have  our  charac- 
ter —  we  think  a  good  deal  about  our  character  —  we 
mean  to  keep  our  character — we  do  not  intend  that  any 
one  shall  break  our  character.  And  these  Association 
drunkards  do  break  our  character.  And  yet,  we  poor 
Methodists,  are  they  who  suffer  from  them.  What  shall 
we  do  with  them,  brethren  ?  "  Becoming  excited,  he 
continued  :  '*  I  feel  like  putting  them  up  at  auction  this 
very  moment  to  any  one  who  will  take  them,  so  that 
they  need  not  give  us  any  more  trouble."  Then,  and 
raising  his  voice  to  its  highest  pitch,  and  stretching  out 
his  arm  as  though  holding  them  in  his  hand,  he  cried 


l-HE   WELSH    PULPIT.  333 

out:  "Who  will  take  them?  Who  will  take  them? 
Churchmen,  will  you  take  them  ?  We  !  we  profess  at 
baptism  to  renounce  the  devil  and  all  his  works.  No ! 
we  won't  take  them."  Then  a  pause.  "Independents, 
will  you  take  them  ?  What  ?  we  !  we  have  for  gen- 
erations past  left  the  church  of  England  because  of  its 
corruptness;  we  won't  have  them."  Another  pause. 
Then,  with  outstretched  arms,  he  cried  out  again : 
"Baptists,  will  you  take  them?  We!  we  plunge 
our  people  all  over  in  water,  to  show  that  we  re- 
ceive only  those  who  want  to  be  clean  ;  we  won't  have 
them."  Another  pause.  "  Wesleyans,  will  you  have 
them?  What?  we!  Good  works  are  a  matter  of 
life  with  us;  we  won't  have  them."  At  this,  still  hold- 
ing out  his  hands,  as  though  he  were  holding  them  in 
it,  he  wheels  around  from  side  to  side,  facing  the  con- 
gregation, and  shouts  at  the  height  of  his  voice  :  "  Who 
will  take  them  ?  Who  will  take  them  ?  Who  will  take 
them?  "  In  an  instant  his  whole  nature  is  aroused — his 
eyes  flash  lightning — his  frame  is  strongly  agitated — he 
turns  his  face  to  the  left,  and  in  a  low  voice,  Vv^hich  is 
yet  distinctly  heard  by  the  entire  congregation,  he  says : 
' '  I  almost  fancy  that  I  hear  the  devil  here  at  my  elbow 
say :  'Kfiock  thejn  dow7i  to  7ne,  I  zuill  take  them. ' ' '  There- 
upon he  lifts  up  his  eyes,  and  with  a  look  of  terrible 
earnestness  he  gazes  around  upon  the  congregation,  and 
for  a  full  quarter  of  a  minute  he  utters  not  a  word. 
Then  facing  again  to  the  left,  and  showing  the  index 
finger  of  the  right  hand  in  the  direction  of  his  (left) 
elbow,  once,  twice,  three  times,  he  shouts  with  a  mighty 
voice  which  echoes  through  the  town:  "I  was  going  to 
say,  Satan,  that  you  might  have  them,  but,"  lifting  up 
his  eyes  and  stretching  out  his  hand  heavenward,  and 
exclaiming  in  a  voice  of  tender  exultation,  "  I  hear  Jesus 
cry  out :     '  I  will  take  them  !     I  will  take  them !     I  will 


334  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

take  them!  just  as  they  are;  foul,  to  wash  them; 
drunkards,  to  make  them  sober;  in  all  their  filth,  to 
cleanse  them  in  mine  own  blood.'  "  By  this  time  the 
scene  was  a  strange  one.  The  preachers  on  the  plat- 
form seemed  to  be  beside  themselves.  The  vast  con- 
gregation was  in  one  great  ferment.  Nor  did  the  ex- 
citement subside  until  several  hours  after,  when  in  the 
evening  of  the  same  day  Mr.  Elias  himself  again  took 
the  stand  and  preached  from  John  iii:  1-5,  one  of  the 
most  powerful  sermons  which  he  ever  delivered. 

After  the  death  of  John  EHas,  Henry  Rees,  of  Liver- 
pool, by  common  consent  succeeded  to  the  premiership 
(if  the  term  may  be  allowed)  of  the  Welsh  Calvinistic 
Methodist  pulpit.  Him  I  often  saw  and  heard  when  a 
boy.  He  has  been  pronounced  by  so  competent  a 
judge  as  Dr.  Hall  to  be  the  most  powerful  sermonizer 
known  to  him ;  Dr.  Hall's  judgment  being  based  on 
sermons  which  had  been  translated  especially  for  his 
benefit,  and  on  impressions  received  through  frequently 
hearing  Mr.  Rees  in  person,  when  the  substance  of  the 
sermon  was  communicated  to  him  by  an  interpreter.  Dr. 
Owen  Thomas  gives  the  same  judgment.  His  language 
is:  "In  Henry  Rees,  the  pulpit  reached  in  our  judg- 
ment the  highest  perfection  it  has  ever  attained  in  our 
country,  and  we  know  of  no  one  in  any  country  or  in 
any  age,  whose  sermons,  considered  simply  as  compo- 
sitions, we  should  be  willing  to  acknowledge  as  being 
superior  to  his." 

His  appearance  in  the  pulpit  was  most  impressive. 
His  person  was  tall  and  commanding;  his  forehead 
broad  and  full;  his  eyes  large  and  lustrous;  a  face  of 
seraphic  beauty  and  purity ;  his  expression  most  delight- 
ful, gentle  and  winning.  He  had  a  peculiar  spiritual 
wistfulness  in  his  look  as  he  stood   before  a  congrega- 


THE   WELSH    PULPIT.  335 

tion,  the  like  of  which  I  have  never  seen.  It  seemed  to 
convey  an  intense  yearning  for  every  soul  present. 

His  voice  had  a  certain  plaintive  pathos  in  it  that  was 
unusually  effective,  whether  in  solemn  remonstrance,  or 
in  tender  pleading.  Mr.  Williams,  of  Wern,  once  said 
of  it, ' '  that  it  was  not  a  good  voice  by  nature,  it  was 
his  piety  that  made  it  what  it  was."  He  was  one  of 
the  most  conspicuous  illustrations,  both  in  the  pulpit 
and  out  of  it,  of  the  spiritualization  of  a  man's  person- 
ality by  grace.  The  secret  of  his  pulpit  power  lay 
here.  The  transfiguration  of  a  soul  whose  abode  was 
in  the  secret  place  of  the  Most  High,  was  visible  alike 
upon  the  man  and  upon  the  sermon. 

His  preaching  was  adapted  to  all  classes.  By  its 
fullness,  depth  and  symmetry,  it  held  the  most  culti- 
vated ;  while  by  its  simplicity,  tenderness  and  personal 
directness,  it  impressed  the  most  illiterate.  His  analysis 
of  the  heart  was  most  masterly;  his  dissection  of  mo- 
tives, of  subterfuges,  of  self-deceptions,  most  keen  and 
searching.  Having  laid  bare  the  soul's  inmost  depths, 
and  brought  his  hearers  to  the  verge  of  despair,  he 
would  with  inimitable  persuasiveness  bring  forth  the 
consolations  of  the  Gospel.  How  at  such  times  would 
his  voice  melt  into  the  gentleness  of  tears,  while  his  face 
would  shine  like  that  of  an  ansrel. 

''Yea,  Sinai,  send  forth  thy  thunders;  Ebal,  pour 
down  thy  curses ;  Throne  of  God,  shoot  forth  thy  light- 
ning; Satan,  put  forth  thy  accusations;  guilty  con- 
science, pass  thy  sentence  of  condemnation.  But,  in 
the  midst  of  the  thunders  of  Sinai,  within  sound  of  the 
curses  of  Ebal,  face  to  face  with  the  radiant  brightness 
of  the  throne,  in  spite  of  all  the  jeers  of  the  enemy, 
notwithstanding  all  the  taunting  of  the  heart,  thou  poor 
lost  sinner,  take  hope  !  take  hope  !  It  is  Christ  that  died." 

At  the  same  time  that  Henry  Rees  stood  at  the  head 


33^  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

of  the  Calvinistic  Methodist  pulpit  in  Wales,  his  brother, 
William  Rees,  stood  and  still  stands  at  the  head  of  the 
Independent  pulpit.  A  manysided  man,  of  extraordi- 
nary versatiHty  and  genius,  one  of  the  first  poets  of 
Wales,  an  unrivaled  platform  orator  and  lecturer,  an 
effective  political  writer  and  speaker,  he  is  also  a 
preacher  of  rare  genius  and  power. 

IV.    JOHN    JONES,    TALSARN. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  original  preachers  in 
Wales  was  John  Jones,  first  known  as  John  Jones, 
Llanllyfni,  and  afterwards  as  John  Jones,  Talsarn,  in 
Carnarvonshire.  Between  the  ages  of  twelve  and  six- 
teen, it  was  my  privilege  to  hear  him  several  times  in 
the  neighborhoods  of  Bangor  and  Bala,  often  walking  to 
points  three  to  six  miles  distant,  where  he  had  been 
announced  to  preach.  I  heard  him  preach  on  Bala 
Green,  in  the  Association  of  1848,  one  of  the  great- 
est sermons  of  his  life,  and  one  of  the  most  powerful 
ever  preached  on  that  consecrated  field,  from  the  words  : 
''What  is  a  man  profited  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole 
world,  and  lose  his  ov/n  soul?  or,  what  shall  a  man 
give  in  exchange  for  his  soul?"  He  had  preached  from 
the  same  words  a  few  days  before  in  Liverpool,  but 
to  use  the  Welsh  phrase,  there  was  "no  go"  [dim 
myiid)  in  the  sermon.  Very  different  was  the  case 
in  Bala.  To  quote  from  Dr.  Thomas,  who  heard  him 
on  both  occasions:  "He  preached  this  time  with  tre- 
mendous power  and  effectiveness.  The  truth  enlarged 
in  his  hands,  and  expanded  before  his  mind  with  such 
clearness  and  such  glory,  that  the  sermon  which  the  day 
before  scarcely  filled  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  now  ex- 
tended over  an  hour  and  a  half  The  effects  on  the 
vast  congregation  continued  and  increased  to  the  end. 
The  importance  and  dnnrc-     f  Mosing  the  soul'  took 


THE   WELSH    PULPIT. 


such  complete  possession  of  all  minds  that  no  other 
thought  could  find  a  place.  Before  the  end  hundreds 
had  broken  out  in  shouts  of  rejoicing  over  God's  plan 
for  'saving  the  soul;'  and  the  depth  of  feeling  exhib- 
ited by  the  millions  who  were  present  that  morning  on 
the  Green  is  something  to  be  remembered  forever." 

It  is  simply  impossible  to  convey  by  a  pen-and-ink 
description  in  EngHsh  any  adequate  idea  of  the  pecu- 
liar power  wielded  by  this  remarkable  representative  of 
the  Welsh  pulpit ;  and  yet  I  would  fain  convey  a  faint 
glimmer  of  his  preaching. 

Imagine  a  man  five  feet  ten  in  stature,  of  comely  pro- 
portions, head  rather  high  and  long,  broad  forehead, 
very  full  over  the  eyes,  of  dark  brown  hair,  and 
dark  blue  eyes,  with  heavy  over-arching  eyebrows, 
with  thin  red  lips,  and  a  beautifully  expressive  mouth, 
long,  oval  face,  fresh  rosy  cheeks,  the  whole  ex- 
pression of  countenance  combining  in  unusual  meas- 
ure sweetness  and  strength.  A  more  perfect  embodi- 
ment of  manly  beauty  never  occupied  the  sacred  desk. 
He  stands  bolt  upright  looking  straight  before  him,  just 
over  the  Bible,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left,  holding  the  corners  or  edges  of  the  desk  board  or 
the  Bible,  turning  the  leaves  of  the  latter  a  little  per- 
haps, maintaining  that  posture  nearly  all  the  way 
through,  with  scarce  a  movement  of  the  body,  except 
as  now  and  then  he  makes  a  sweeping  gesture  with  his 
arm,  or  leans  forward  on  the  Bible,  or  emphasizes  a 
thought  by  stamping  the  floor  with  his  foot.  Evidently 
we  have  no  John  Elias  here.  But  ah !  what  a  voice ! 
who  can  describe  it?  Rich,  deep,  strong,  sweet,  reso- 
nant, penetrative,  with  modulations  and  inflections,  I 
venture  to  say,  never  heard  before  in  a  pulpit  voice. 
He  begins  on  a  low  key,  too  low  indeed  for  the  large 
congregation  which  is  listening  to  him,  were  it  not  for 


33^  LLEWELYN   lOAN    EVANS. 

the  breathless  stillness  which  prevails.  But  he  is  soon 
heard  everywhere  with  ease,  and  you  find  that  you  are 
listening  not  only  to  a  wonderful  voice,  but  to  an  ex- 
traordinary mind ;  a  thinker  of  rare  originality  and  dar- 
ing. You  are  interested,  startled  and  delighted.  What 
sinewy  Welsh  !  What  bold  conceptions  !  What  forci- 
ble statements  of  leading  truths  !  What  strange  com- 
binations of  ideas !  What  novel  flights  of  fancy ! 
What  audacious  hypotheses !  What  quaint  sequences  of 
thought !  What  startling  effective  transitions  ! 

But  note  the  movement  of  the  sermon.  See  how  every 
stage  in  the  discourse  is  not  only  an  advance,  but  an 
ascent.*  Mark,  meanwhile,  how  the  voice  enlarges  its 
range,  its  volume,  its  flexibility.  Observe  how  new 
inflections,  modulations,  and  cadences  come  in,  and  how 
musical  and  expressive  they  are.  Did  you  notice  that 
change  of  key?  Did  you  mark  how  effective  it  was, 
how  well  suited  to  the  transition  of  thought?  Did  you 
notice  that  grand  swell  of  tone,  like  the  diapason  of  an 
organ?  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  it?  Did  you 
notice  that  swell  which  followed  the  former,  then  another 
and  another,  like  wave  following  wave,  all  alike,  yet 
each  different?  And  now  do  you  notice,  as  the  thoughts 
come  rushing  along,  as  though  struggling  to  overtake 
each  other,  how  those  tone-swells  come  rolling  onward, 
each  mounting  on  the  back  of  the  one  just  before  it  until 
massing  themselves  together,  and  lifting  their  crest  heav- 
enward, they  break  on  their  shore  in  a  long  roll  of  thun- 
der, which  haunts  you  ever  after  like  the  music  of  the  sea  ? 

He  is  preaching  on  Eternal  Life.  His  text  is — "Lay 
hold  on  eternal  life."  (i  Tim.  vi:  12.)  He  begins  with 
a  definition  of  his  theme.  Clearness  of  conception  and 
exactness  of  statement  are  at  all  times  characteristic  of 


*Compare  what  was  said  above  in  Art.  I,  of  the  gradations  in  the 
preaching  of  D.  Rowlands,  of  Llangeitho. 


THE  WELSH    PULPIT.  339 

this  didactic  discussion.  Then  all  at  once,  abruptly, 
solemnly  he  plunges  into  a  description  of  the  amazing 
conduct  of  those  who  are  indifferent  to  such  a  priceless 
boon.  Oh,  the  folly  of  it !  the  cruelty  of  it !  the  incon- 
sistency of  it !  What  if  men  adopted  in  reference  to 
their  religious  interests  the  rule  of  this  world's  utilitari- 
anism? What  if  they  allowed  eternal  life  to  count  in 
their  practical  estimates  according  to  its  real  worth  and 
importance?  How  would  the  proportion  of  things  be 
inverted  ?  How  would  the  petty  concerns  of  this  world 
be  crowded  out? 

And  now,  with  change  of  intonation,  follows  a  bit  of 
calm,  exquisite  philosophic  discussion  of  the  threefold 
life  of  the  Christian :  the  natural  life,  the  spiritual  life, 
and  the  eternal  Hfe.  He  shows  how  the  natural  life 
makes  the  man ;  how  the  spiritual  life  makes  the  saint, 
and  how  the  eternal  life  makes  the  saint  made  perfect. 
He  shows  how  and  why  holiness  is  the  law  which  rules 
the  development  of  life  into  Hfe  eternal.  And  now  the 
transcendent  glory  of  eternal  life  as  the  culmination  of 
holiness  and  communion  with  God  challenges  his  con- 
sideration. But  how  shall  he  describe  it?  How  Httle 
we  know  of  it! 

' '  We  have  never  seen  that  eternal  world  or  the  life 
which  is  lived  there.  I  have  never  been  there,  and  I 
have  never  seen  anybody  who  had  been  there.  I  have 
seen  many  go  there;  but  I  have  never  seen  anybody 
come  back.  The  Bible  does  not  say  much  about  it.  It 
says  what  it  knows,  but  that  is  only  a  very  little.  *  I 
know  but  in  part, '  it  says  by  the  mouth  of  Paul.  '  Eye 
hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  neither  have  entered  into 
the  heart  of  man,  the  things  which  God  hath  prepared 
for  them  that  love  him.'  'It  doth  not  yet  appear  what 
we  shall  be.'  It's  very  little  we  know  of  what  we  were; 
it's  very  little  we  know  of  what  we  are  ;  it's  still  less  we 


340  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

know  of  what  we  shall  be.  That  great  world  of  eternity 
is  a  very  dark  world  to  us  in  the  present.  Well,  as  for 
that  matter,  I  suppose  we  have  no  language  in  this 
world  with  which  to  describe  the  things  of  the  other 
world.  The  language  of  earth  is  far  too  feeble.  This 
is  only  something  with  which  to  toss  the  affairs  and 
interests  of  time  from  one  to  another.  It  was  never 
intended  to  take  in  all  the  greatness  and  the  glory  of 
the  blessedness  of  the  saints  in  the  world  to  come.  It 
is  too  small  for  that.  Its  streams  are  too  shallow  for 
the  leviathan  vessels  of  eternity  to  float  in  them.  Its 
chambers  are  too  narrow  for  eternal  realities  to  turn 
around  in  them. 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  Greek  and  the  Hebrew. 
Those  who  are  acquainted  with  those  tongues  tell  me 
that  they  are  languages  of  extraordinary  power.  They 
have  in  them  words  strong  beyond  all  comparison,  some 
words  which  are  semi-infinite,  they  tell  me.  But  the 
Apostle  Paul  at  all  events  knew  both  Hebrew  and  Greek 
perfectly;  and  he  was  a  rare  master  of  language.  He 
could  take  the  strongest  words  in  those  languages,  and 
stretch  them  to  the  utmost  tension  of  which  they  were 
capable.  But  when  the  Apostle  Paul  came  down  from 
the  third  heaven,  after  he  had  been  given  there  just  a 
glimpse  of  its  glories,  he  could  find  no  words,  either  in 
Greek  or  in  Hebrew,  or  in  all  the  languages  of  earth 
combined,  that  could  convey  the  faintest  idea  of  what 
he  had  seen.  All  that  he  could  say  about  those  things 
v/as  :  unspeakable,'" 

A  little  further  along  in  the  discourse  he  is  distin- 
guishing between  eternal  life  and  eternal  existence. 
"Eternal  life  is  something  on  which  you  are  to  lay  hold. 
You  have  no  need  to  lay  hold  of  eternal  existence. 
Eternity  will  one  day  come  by  thee,  and  it  will  lay  hold 
on  thee.     Eternal  existence  belongs  to  us  already,  and 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  34I 

that  Is  something  that  appals  me  at  times.  I  am  in  one 
respect  infinite  in  existence,  in  duration:  my  being-  runs 
parallel  to  that  of  the  Infinite  God  himself  in  duration. 
I  am  not  like  Him  in  any  other  respect — in  power,  or 
in  wisdom,  or  in  knowledge ;  but  in  duration  I  shall 
exist  while  He  exists;  in  duration  I  am  on  a  parallel 
with  the  Infinite  God.  I  sink  to  nothingness  in  a  sense, 
when  I  compare  myself  with  that  great  sun  up  there ; 
but  he  too  sinks  to  insignificance  when  compared  with 
me  in  duration.  When  he  has  ended  his  day's  work 
(^paii  y  bydd  efe  zvcdi  cadw  itoswyl)^  I  shall  be  only 
beginning  to  live.  When  he  is  laid  to  rest  from  his 
labors,  I  shall  just  begin  to  be  conscious  that  I  am  a 
man.  Let  the  little  bird  tune  his  song  on  the  bough, 
there  is  no  eternity  connected  with  his  works;  let  that 
little  lamb  gambol  in  the  meadow,  his  day  will  soon  be 
over;  let  sea-monsters  sport  in  the  waters,  their  life 
will  soon  come  to  an  end — but  Oh  !  God,  be  merciful  to 
me  and  my  hearers ;  we  are  creatures  before  whom  lies 
eternity!  Be  pleased,  O  Lord!  to  incline  our  hearts  to 
answer  the  end  of  our  existence !  Help  us  to  use  our 
opportunities  to  prepare  for  an  eternity  of  duration." 

These  short,  ejaculatory  prayers,  which  abounded  in 
his  sermons  when  the  '^  hwyV  had  come,  were  most 
striking  and  effective,  and  generally  met  with  a  response 
of  Amens  which  shook  the  house. 

He  did  not  hesitate  on  occasions  to  stimulate  the 
responses  of  the  congregation  by  special  expedients  and 
appeals.  The  most  striking  example  of  this  was  in  his 
sermon  on  the  words  :  "  Why  stand  ye  here  all  the  day 
idle?"  The  magnificent  challenge  of  the  suffrages  of 
his  hearers  for  their  chosen  Lord  and  Master  on  which 
he  ventures  in  this  discourse  is  perhaps  without  a  paral- 
lel for  audacity  and  effectiveness  in  the  annals  of  pulpit 
eloquence.     The  style  of  the  discourse  was  thoroughly 


342  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

popular,  the  language  and  images  those  of  the  serving 
and  laboring  classes.  "I  am  here  to-day,"  he  said, 
"in  behalf  of  my  Master,  to  seek  to  hire  you  every 
one  for  his  service.  You  have  been  urged  to  this  a 
hundred  times  before,  but  I  fear  that  many  of  you  have 
not  done  so  yet,  and  are  still  in  the  service  of  Satan  and 
of  sin.  Well,  let  us  know  why  you  refuse  to  hire  your- 
selves?    'Why  stand  ye  here  all  the  day  idle?' 

1.  '^W/iy?  Have  you  anything  against  the  Master?^* 
Here  he  dwelt  in  servant-class  phraseology,  on  the  ex- 
cellencies of  the  Master,  whose  cause  he  was  pleading, 
contrasting  him  with  the  devil,  whom  so  many  of  them 
were  serving,  with  an  eloquence  which  thrilled  all 
hearts. 

2.  "  Why  ?  Have  you  anything  against  the  service  ?  " 
Here  again  in  popular  language  he  vividly  contrasted 
the  reasonableness  and  pleasantness  and  dignity  of 
Christ's  service,  with  the  folly  and  wretchedness  and 
shamefulness  of  the  service  of  Satan  and  sin. 

3.  ''Why?  Have  you  anything  against  the  wages  f 
Here  he  extolled  the  unspeakable  preciousness  of  the 
rewards  promised  by  Christ,  of  which  indeed  only  the 
earnest  is  received  in  this  life,  although  that  is  worth 
infinitely  more  than  the  wages  of  sin,  were  nothing  else 
to  follow. 

4.  ' '  Why  ?  Have  you  anything  against  the  other  serv- 
ants ?"  Here  followed  an  elegant  eulogy  of  all  Christ's 
servants,  through  the  ages,  as  "the  salt  of  the  earth," 
men  "of  whom  the  world  was  not  worthy,"  contrast- 
ing them  with  the  "serpents,"  "  generations  of  vipers, " 
"fiends  in  human  shape,"  who  were  engaged  in  the 
devil's  service. 

5.  "  Why?  Have  you  afiy  thing  against  the  table,  and 
the  provision  7nade  for  your  support?''  Here  came  a 
glorious   description  of  the   feasting  in  Christ's  house^ 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  343 

the  hidden  manna,  the  new  wine,  the  clusters  of  Canaan, 
contrasted  with  the  ashes,  the  wormwood,  and  the  gall, 
the  apples  of  Sodom  on  the  devil's  table.  By  his  argu- 
ments of  each  of  these  points  he  had  acquired  the  most 
complete  mastery  over  the  congregation,  and  now  he 
felt  ready  to  challenge  their  suffrages.* 

"  Well,  my  hearers,  I  have  been  trying  thus  far  to 
present  the  claims  of  the  two  Masters  as  fairly  as  I 
could.  I  am  very  sure  that  I  haven't  wronged  the 
devil.  If  either  of  them  has  suffered  wrong  at  my 
hands  it  is  Jesus  Christ,  for  I  have  nothing  like  the 
ability  to  do  Him  justice ;  we  must  go  to  heaven  to  get 
that,  and  we  must  have  eternity  to  praise  Him.  But 
you  have  heard  enough,  I  presume,  to  enable  you  to 
come  to  some  decision  of  the  question,  and  have  made 
up  your  minds  whom  you  will  serve.  Let  me  then 
ask  you  what  you  intend  to  do  ?  For  whom  will  you 
cast  your  vote  ?  What  can  we  do  better  than  put  up 
the  one  and  the  other  for  your  choice,  take  the  vote  of 
the  house,  and  find  out  fairly  who  is  for  the  one  and 
who  is  for  the  other.  Let  us  pronounce  our  benedic- 
tion on  the  two  princes,  and  I  will  ask  you  to  be 
ready  with  your  Amen,  to  second  the  benediction. 
And  lest  anybody  should  charge  me  with  the  disposi- 
tion to  wrong  the  devil,  I  will  give  him  the  first  chance ; 
and  I  call  upon  you,  his  supporters,  to  be  ready  to  give 
him  your  vote,  and  to  make  public  your  acknowledg- 
ment of  him  : 

"  Belzebub,  thou  prince  of  the  powers  of  the  air, 
commander  of  the  hosts  of  hell !  with  pleasure  we  ac- 
knowledge thy  authority  ;  thy  service  is  our  delight,  we 
rejoice  in  the  expectation  of  its  rewards  ;  with  all  our 

*  I  have  followed  in  the  main  the  version  given  by  Dr.  O.  Thomas 
in  the  text  of  his  Memoir,  with  a  few  modifications  from  the  version 
given  in  the  appendix. 


344  LLEWELYN    lOAN   EVANS. 

heart  we  desire  thee  to  Hve  forever,  to  rule  over  us  to 
all  eternity,  and  to  extend  thy  sceptre  over  the  utter- 
most ends  of  creation.  If  that  sentiment  pleases  you, 
say  Anicii  !  "     [Startled  silence.] 

"  Where  is  your  Amen  ?  Why  do  you  keep  so  still? 
Where  are  Satan's  servants  ?  Stand  up  like  men  for 
your  Master.  Perhaps  you  did  not  understand  the 
proposition.  I  will  give  you  another  chance.  Oh, 
thou  most  illustrious  Satan,  emperor  of  hell,  great 
chieftain  of  all  the  devils  of  destruction,  who  didst  not 
dread  the  thunderbolts  of  the  Omnipotent,  but  didst 
challenge  Him  to  arms,  and  didst  so  far  succeed  in  the 
rebellion  against  Him  as  to  spread  sorrow  and  lamen- 
tation and  woe  over  the  most  delightsome  and  paradisia- 
cal provinces  of  his  dominion ;  we  glory  in  being  thy 
followers  ;  we  delight  in  thy  sovereignty  over  us,  and 
we  bind  ourselves  to  be  forever  faithful  to  thee.  Long 
live  the  King !  and  may  he  reign  over  us  forever  and 
ever!  Now  for  your  Amen.'' — [Solemn  and  oppressive 
silence.] 

'  *  What !  are  there  none  of  the  devil's  servants  here  ? 
Surely  you  are  not  going  to  disown  your  master  thus 
publicly.  Where  are  you  who  were  so  shamelessly 
calling  upon  him  in  the  fair  the  other  day  ?  I  am  about 
to  give  you  one  more  opportunity.  Now  or  never  is 
your  only  chance.  Stand  up  for  your  master  like  men. 
Own  him  in  the  monthly  meeting  as  you  do  at  the  fair, 
or  in  the  tavern.  Now  then  give  your  voice  in  his 
favor.  Blessed  be  thy  name,  O  Prince  of  Gehenna  and 
Emperor  of  the  Bottomless  Pit,  who  dost  build  thy 
throne  on  oppression  ;  who  dost  administer  thy  gov- 
ernment by  means  of  falsehood  ;  who  dost  write  thy 
laws  with  the  blood  of  thy  subjects  ;  on  thy  head  be 
an  everlasting  crown.  Let  thy  dominion  be  established 
forever ;  let  God  be  cast  down   from  His  throne  and 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  345 

deprived  of  all  His  rights.  Let  His  authority  be  every- 
where overthrown.  Thine  be  the  government  through 
all  eternity,  and  hasten  we  pray  thee,  to  bring  us  home 
to  thyself,  where  we  may  enjoy  closer  communion  with 
thy  Satanic  Majesty,  and  be  in  more  complete  subjec- 
tion to  thy  will.  And  let  all  the  people  say  Amen  !  " 
[Continued  silence,  accompanied  by  deep  excitement.] 

*'  Well,  the  devil  himself  cannot  say  that  I  have  not 
given  his  friends,  if  any  of  them  are  here,  every  chance 
to  acknowledge  him.  It  would  seem,  however,  that 
we  have  a  very  happy  state  of  things  here  to-day. 
Here  is  a  chapel  full  of  people,  without  as  much  as  one 
servant  of  the  devil ;  at  least,  if  there  are  any  here, 
they  are  ashamed  of  him,  and  I  hope  that  they  have 
made  up  their  minds  never  to  serve  him  more. 

"  But  let  us  see  who  there  are  here,  and  how  many 
who  are  for  Jesus  Chris-t,  and  whether  they  are  ashamed 
to  own  Him.  His  old  servants  here  in  Montgomery- 
shire— where  are  you  ?  Some  of  you  have  been  in  His 
service  now  for  over  half  a  century.  You  have  by  this 
time  given  Him  a  fair  trial ;  let  us  hear  what  you  think 
of  Him.  Now  then  for  it :  Oh,  Thou  blessed  Jesus ! 
Thou  didst  give  thyself  for  us,  and  didst  redeem  us 
with  Thy  precious  blood  ;  in  infinite  mercy  Thou  didst 
deliver  us  out  of  the  hard  servitude  in  which  we  were 
bound,  and  didst  receive  us  into  Thine  own  delightful 
service,  and  into  Thine  own  dear  house.  With  all  our 
heart  we  bless  Thy  name  for  Thine  unspeakable  kind- 
ness. We  are  resolved  to  serve  Thee  henceforth  while 
we  live,  and  we  can  wish  for  no  better  heaven  than  to 
be  freed  from  all  that  unfits  us  for  Thy  service  and 
praise,  and  to  cast  our  crowns  forever  at  Thy  feet. 
O  precious  Jesus,  Son  of  the  Blessed,  Saviour  of  sinners, 
accept  our  imperfect  and  unworthy  service,  and  grant 
that  forever  we  may  be  somewhere  trying  to  do  some- 


346  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

thing  for  Thee!  "     [Hundreds  of  Amens  In  all  parts  of 
the  house.] 

**  Oh,  yes,  that's  it  !  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  Amen, 
the  old  Amen  that  I  heard  in  Montgomeryshire  nearly 
twenty-four  years  ago.  It  proves  to  me,  what  I 
thought  all  the  time,  that  there  are  here  many  old  serv- 
ants of  Jesus  Christ,  who  are  ready  to  commend  Him, 
and  are  not  ashamed  to  own  Him.  Let  us  see  if  there 
are  any  others  here  who  are  ready  to  enter  upon  His 
service.  Come  with  me  now :  Oh  thou  great  Jesus, 
Son  of  God,  Saviour  of  sinners,  who  from  eternity  hast 
been  anointed  to  be  our  king,  and  who  hast  the  best 
right  to  our  service,  we  mourn  with  heartfelt  sorrow 
that  we  have  so  long  delayed  giving  ourselves  wholly 
to  Thee.  We  come  to  Thee  now,  to  offer  ourselves  to 
Thee.  Receive  us,  O  Saviour  of  men,  save  us  through 
the  merits  of  Thine  infinite  sacrifice,  and  receive  us  to 
endeavor  to  do  all  in  our  power,  henceforth,  for  Thy 
name  and  glory.  Live  forever  as  our  Saviour,  and  as 
our  King,  and  on  Thy  head  be  the  crown,  forever  and 
ever,  Amen.''  [What  seems  to  be  a  universal  Amen 
from  all  in  the  house.] 

*' Yes,  that  sounds  like  it ;  and  I  trust  that  this  is  not 
the  excitement  of  the  moment;  but  that  it  signifies  the 
heart's  earnest  decision  in  favor  of  Jesus  Christ.  Sup- 
pose we  have  one  more  trial,  that  we  may  see  how 
many  are  sincerely  resolved  to  enthrone  Him  in  their 
hearts.  Come  now,  let  us  hear  :  O  Thou  beloved  Jesus, 
who  in  our  low  estate  didst  remember  us,  for  Thy 
mercy  is  from  everlastin<g  to  everlasting  ;  who  in  Thine 
infinite,  loving  kindness,  being  rich,  didst  for  our  sake 
become  poor  ;  didst  espouse  our  cause,  and  pour  out 
Thy  soul  to  death  in  our  stead,  taking  on  Thyself  the 
chastisement  of  our  peace  ;  take  the  rule  over  us  for- 
evermore;    enthrone   Thyself  on    our   hearts   as  King 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  34/ 

Everlasting,  and  let  Thy  kingdom  embrace  the  utter- 
most ends  of  the  earth,  and  all  the  world's  inhabitants. 
Blessing,  and  glory,  and  wisdom,  and  thanksgiving, 
and  honor,  and  praise,  and  might,  be  unto  Thy  name, 
forever  and  ever.  Amen." 

The  effect  of  this  last  appeal  was  indescribable.  Dr. 
Thomas,  who  was  present,  and  who  has  furnished  the 
above  report,  says :  '  *  We  are  not  quite  certain  as  re- 
gards the  religious  character  of  the  excitement  which 
was  produced.  There  was  a  large  multitude,  doubtless, 
whose  feelings  were  sincere ;  there  were  more,  we  fear, 
who  were  carried  away  by  something  like  the  spirit  of 
a  political  contest.  But  we  do  not  remember  having 
ever  witnessed  a  more  complete  mastery  of  the  con- 
gregation by  the  preacher." 

V.    CONDITIONS   OF   ITS    POWER. 

In  order  to  understand  the  peculiar  power  of  the 
Welsh  pulpit,  regard  must  be  had  to  what  modern  sci- 
ence would  call  its  ''environment."  It  is  what  it  is 
largely  in  virtue  of  being  where  it  is.  The  national, 
social,  ecclesiastical,  and  religious  conditions  v/hich  sur- 
round it  are  an  important  factor  of  its  influence  and 
success. 

I.  In  the  first  place  it  should  be  remembered  that  in 
Wales  religion  is  everything.  It  is  the  one  great  inter- 
est of  the  people.  It  is  the  protoplasm  of  the  national 
life.  It  is  the  woof,  whatever  else  be  the  warp  of  its  in- 
stitutions. It  is  the  be-all-and  end-all  of  its  organizations. 
If  elsewhere  men  make  a  religion  of  art,  of  science,  of 
literature,  in  Wales  religion  itself  furnishes  the  art,  the 
science,  the  literature.  In  Greece  the  theatre  was  the 
nation's  pulpit;  in  Wales  the  pulpit  is  the  nation's 
theatre.      All  power,  intellectual  and  moral,  gravitates 


348  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

to  it.  Its  honors  are  the  mother's  prayer ;  the  boy's 
young  dream  ;  the  aspiration  of  the  student ;  the  destiny 
of  genius. 

2.  Reh'gion  being,  as  I  have  said,  the  one  great  inter- 
est of  the  nation,  it  becomes  a  mighty  bond  of  union 
between  pulpit  and  people.  The  preacher  has  an  im- 
mense advantage  in  the  hold  which  his  theme  has  on 
the  sympathies,  the  thoughts,  the  life  of  his  hearers. 
Even  the  chimney-corners  of  the  tavern  re-echo  with 
discussions  of  preachers  and  preaching ;  and  ' '  Jack  on 
his  ale-house  bench,"  in  his  cups,  it  may  be,  criticises 
the  latest  pulpit  sensation.  This,  of  course,  has  its 
unfavorable  side.  It  is  a  disadvantage  that  the  Gospel 
should  so  largely  take  the  place  of  a  diversion.  The 
number  of  Gospel-hardened  sinners  in  Wales  is  doubt- 
less very  great.  On  the  other  hand  the  proportion  to 
the  entire  population  of  the  country,  of  those  who  have 
real  living  heart-interest  in  the  Gospel,  is  probably  no- 
where larger  than  in  Wales. 

3.  It  is  not  surprising,  as  a  result  of  the  above  facts, 
that,  in  Wales,  popularity  is  a  test  of  real  power. 
The  very  best  preachers  are  most  popular.  As  in 
Greece,  the  popular  verdict  on  the  orator,  or  the  dra- 
matist, was  well-nigh  an  infallible  one;  so  in  Wales 
the  popular  sentence  passed  on  the  preacher  rarely,  if 
ever,  errs.  It  is  a  significant  fact  that  the  most  cele- 
brated and  successful  preachers  attained  popularity  early 
in  their  career.  The  critical  instinct  of  the  populace 
was  not  slow  in  deciding  upon  their  worth.  The  ring 
of  the  genuine  metal  is  known  at  once. 

4.  The  great  popular  preachers  of  Wales,  again,  are 
men  of  the  people.  Largely,  indeed,  they  are  of  the 
poorer,  lower  classes.  Christmas  Evans,  as  we  have 
seen,  was  a  farmer's  bound  boy.  John  Elias,  in  his 
youth,  was  spoken  of  as  the   "weaver  boy  from   An- 


THE   WELSH    PULPIT.  349 

glesea. "  Henry  Rees  was  first  a  farm-hand,  and  after- 
wards, a  book-binder.  His  friend,  and  in  many  respects 
his  equal,  John  Hughes,  was  a^arpentcr.  WiUiam  Rob- 
erts, of  Amlwch,  a  genuine  old  Titan,  was  a  miner's 
boy.  John  Jones,  Talsarn,  was,  at  one  time,  a  quarry- 
man.  The  greatest  living  preachers  of  Wales  were,  for 
the  most  part,  brought  up  to  manual  labor.  Not  a  few 
of  them  were  brought  up  on  small  peasant  farms.  Most 
of  them  were  engaged  during  the  week  in  farming,  shop- 
keeping,  or  even  in  mining,  quarrying,  or  kindred 
occupations.  These  men  understood  the  people,  their 
daily  experiences,  wants,  and  trials.  The  roots  of  their 
life  strike  in  the  same  soil  with  those  of  their  hearers. 
They  know  where  to  find  and  touch  the  springs  of 
thought  and  feeling.  And  the  people  have  no  difficulty 
in  understanding  them.  The  speaker  is  one  of  them- 
selves, bone  of  their  bone;  and  as  he  stands  before 
them,  he  and  they  alike  respond  to  the  "touch  of  fellow- 
feeling"  which  makes  them  all  akin. 

5.  The  training  of  these  men  is  also  worth  noting. 
Until  a  comparatively  recent  time,  collegiate  instruction 
was  a  rare  pulpit  equipment.  Many  a  preacher  began 
as  a  ''man  of  one  book" — that  book,  possibly,  Peter 
Williams'  Bible.  By  degrees  a  commentary  (**Esbon- 
iad  Jas.  Hughes,"  perhaps)  and  a  Bible  Dictionary 
("Geiriadur  Charles,"  no  doubt)  were  added,  and  the 
preacher  regarded  himself  as  having  a  fair  outfit.  I  well 
remember  with  what  mysterious  awe,  and  reverence  for 
the  preacher's  attainments,  I  would  listen  to  an  occa- 
sional allusion  to  Josephus — ''  Y mae Josephiis yn  dyweyd'' 
(Josephus  says.)  Their  preparation  was  of  a  decidedly 
practical  sort.  As  the  Indian  throws  his  papoose  into 
the  water,  that  instinct  may  teach  him  to  swim,  so  in 
Wales,  a  young  man  of  promise  is  put  up  on  his  feet 
before  a  congregation,  with  just  one  thing  before  him  to 


350  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

do.  Speak  he  must,  whether  he  can  or  not.  If  it  is  in 
him,  it  will  out.  Failures  are  not  unknown,  'mute, 
inglorious'  Chrysostom^t,  doomed  to  remain  mute  and 
inglorious,  because  their  mouth,  unfortunately,  was  not 
gold.  So,  by  a  process  of  natural  selection,  the  fittest 
find  their  way  into  the  pulpit,  while  the  rest,  usually,  at 
least,  are  left  out. 

6.  The  system  of  itineracy,  at  one  time  universal,  and 
still  but  partially  modified  by  the  settled  pastorate,  is 
also  a  condition  not  to  be  overlooked.  On  the  one  side 
it  makes  the  hearers  acquainted  with  every  variety  and 
style  of  preaching.  It  thus  helps  to  educate  the  criti- 
cal faculty.  The  same  is  true  also  of  the  many  special 
preaching  occasions  which  occur  in  connection  with  the 
Associations,  Monthly  Meetings,  etc.  By  these  means 
the  young  aspirant  for  the  pulpit  receives  important 
homiletic  training.  All  the  models  of  the  Welsh  pul- 
pit are  brought  in  their  turn  before  him  ;  by  composing 
and  studying  their  excellencies  or  their  defects,  he  learns 
much  respecting  pulpit  methods,  and  conditions  of  suc- 
cess. 

The  itineracy  is  important,  also,  in  its  relations  to  the 
preacher.  Formerly,  no  minister  had  to  prepare  more 
than  two  or  three  dozen  new  discourses  in  one  year; 
very  many  not  more  than  half  a  dozen.  Even  to-day, 
when  the  best  preachers  are  settled  pastors,  there  is 
rarely  occasion  for  the  preparation  of  more  than  three 
or  four  dozen.  Their  pastoral  engagements  rarely  call 
for  more  than  two  Sabbaths  a  month  in  their  own  pul- 
pit, and  on  these  they  are  not  seldom  relieved  by  some 
wandering  star.  The  rest  of  the  time  they  are  engaged 
in  preaching  elsewhere,  while  others  take  their  places. 
This,  of  course,  is  a  great  advantage  in  the  matter  of 
preparation,  and  still  more  so  in  the  matter  of  delivery. 
Whitefield,  as  is  well  known,  preached  his  best  sermons 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  35  I 

scores,  possibly  hundreds  of  times,  improving  both  mat- 
ter and  manner,  and  especially  the  latter,  with  each 
delivery.  Henry  Rees  never  took  less  than  six  weeks 
for  the  preparation  of  his  greatest  sermons,  and  preached 
them  a  score  of  times,  or  more.  No  wonder  that  such 
sermons  blazed  their  way  through  the  principality. 

7.  The  fact  just  now  noted,  that  these  men  were  large- 
ly working  men — men  of  business,  thrown  in  contact 
with  their  fellow-men  in  the  pursuit  of  business,  and  in 
the  daily  affairs  of  life,  is  not  wathout  its  significance. 
With  all  their  unworldliness,  there  was  in  their  preach- 
ing a  great  deal  of  this  wordliness.  Their  language  and 
illustrations  were  businesslike  and  popular,  drawn  from 
the  farm,  the  shop,  and  the  way-side.  Like  the  Great 
Teacher,  they  spoke  m^uch  in  "  parables,"  made  up  of  fa- 
miliar scenes,  incidents,  and  analogies.  Their  compari- 
sons were  often  rude  and  homely ;  but,  for  that  very 
reason,  came  home  all  the  more  readily  to  men's  hearts. 

8.  The  encouragement  given  to  individuality  in  Welsh 
preaching  should  be  noted.  Speaking  generally,  the 
eloquence  of  the  Welsh  pulpit  has  been  the  eloquence 
of  untutored  nature,  exhibiting  the  faults  no  doubt,  but 
also  the  excellencies  of  that  school.  There  has  been 
the  very  largest  measure  of  spontaneity,  simplicity, 
naturalness,  individuality,  mother-wit,  originality.  Queer 
idiosyncracies  have  abounded,  but  being  accompanied 
by  elements  of  genuine  power,  they  have  generally 
added  to  the  effectiveness  of  the  preaching.  Of  course 
it  is  out  of  the  question  to  give  to  the  English  reader 
any  but  the  faintest  taste  of  the  original  flavor  of  the 
wit,  quaintness,  humor,  and  pathos  of  men  like  Siencyn 
Penhydd,  Evan  Harries,  Aberhoudda,  Robert  Thomas, 
or  Dafydd  Rowland  Llidierdau. 

Robert  Thomas  (or  Tomos)  was  once  in  the  predica- 
ment of  Father  Taylor,  of  Boston,  when  he  said  :    ''My 


352  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

verb  has  lost  its  nominative  case,  but  I'm  bound  for  the 
land  of  glory."  So  when  Robert  Tomos  once  came  to 
his  second  head  it  wasn't  there.      '* Secondly,"  he  said, 

''secondly,  my  people We  come  now  to  the  second 

point Yes,  my  people,  there  is  a  secondly  here 

Oh  yes if  there  were  no  secondly  here,  my  beloved 

hearers,  I  would  dismiss  the  congregation  on  the  spot 

but  there  is  a  secondly  here and  you  must  hear 

what  that  is  too Oh  yes,  if  I  had  only  had  my  first 

head,  I  would  let  you  go  home  right  away but  I  am 

coming  to  the  second  point  now and  that  is  a  very 

important  point yes  indeed,  you  see a  very  im- 
portant point This  second  head  is  a  great  deal  more 

important  than  my  first  head and  (catching  it  at  last) 

here  it  is,"  and  then  he  went  on  under  full  sail. 

I  once  heard  him  preach  from  the  words,  "And  he 
died  for  all"  (2  Cor.  v:  15).  After  giving  two  or  three  ex- 
positions of  the  expression,  he  introduced  the  following 
imaginary  dialogue  between  a  hearer  and  himself :  '  *  Well, 
Robert  Tomos,  what  is  .your  opinion?  "  ''Well,  I  am  of 
precisely  the  same  opinion  with  Paul."  "But  what  is 
Paul's  opinion?"  "Well,  Paul  is  exactly  of  the  same 
opinion  with  me."  "Yes,  but  what  is  your  opinion  and 
Paul's?"  "Well,  we  are  both  just  exactly  of  the  same 
opinion  one  with  another."  In  almost  anybody  else 
this  would  have  sounded  trivial  and  impertinent,  but  in 
Robert  Tomos  it  sounded  natural  and  striking  enough, 
and  stimulated  attention  to  the  original  exegesis  which 
followed,   which    no  doubt   was  what  he  aimed  to  do. 

Such  men  would  scatter  smiles  all  along  their  course, 
and  even  convulse  the  hearers  with  laughter;  and  yet, 
except  in  very  rare  cases,  there  would  be  no  sense  of 
incongruity  or  impropriety,  the  outbreaks  being  so 
spontaneous,  so  irresistible,  and  so  characteristic  of  men 
whose  piety  and  earnestness  were  far  above  all  question, 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  353 

that  their  solemn  and  pathetic  utterances  would  be  all 
the  more  effective  by  contrast.  It  is  as  common  in  a 
Welsh  congregation  to  see  men's  faces  glisten  at  one 
and  the  same  moment  with  smiles  and  tears,  as  it  is  to 
see  sunshine  and  shadow  chasing  each  other  over  the 
landscape  on  an  April  day. 

9.  I  must  not  omit  to  mention  as  peculiarly  charac- 
teristic of  Welsh  preaching  what  is  called  the  ''hwyl." 
The  word  means  strictly  a  sail,  and  it  conveys  peculiar- 
ly the  idea  of  a  sermon  under  full  sail.  There  is  a  Di- 
vine Afflatus  in  the  soul  of  the  preacher.  A  breeze 
from  heaven  sweeps  over  the  congregation,  and  the  ser- 
mon, under  full  canvas,  **  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing 
of  life."  When  the  preacher  reaches  this  mental  and 
spiritual  exaltation  (for  it  is  both),  his  voice  rises  to  a 
higher  key,  and  moves  along  in  measured  and  musical 
intonations.  The  Welsh  are  pre-eminently  a  music- 
loving  people.  Tone  has  strange  power  over  the  ear 
and  over  the  soul.  Hence,  in  Wales,  the  pulpit  tone 
has  reached  its  acme  of  perfection.  It  has  undergone 
decided  modification  with  the  change  in  pulpit  style 
and  method.  The  greater,  and  to  some  extent,  colder 
intellectuality  of  the  modern  style  tends  toward  a  more 
didactic  delivery,  and  the  discontinuance  of  the  chant- 
like modulations,  which  were  at  one  time  all  but  univer- 
sal. No  great  pulpit  master  of  to-day  relies  on  the 
tone,  although,  when  combined  with  striking  ideas, 
strains  of  pathos,  strokes  of  imagination,  it  is  still  very 
effective  with  a  thoroughly  aroused  Welsh  congrega- 
tion. 

10.  Finally,  we  must  take  into  account  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  service.  I  have  already  spoken  of  the 
very  intimate  and  living  sympathy  between  the  pulpit 
and  the  congregation.  There  prevails  a  sort  of  confi- 
dential love-language  to  which  the  pulpit  has  a  conse- 


354  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

crated  right,  terms  of  affectionate  address,  and  tender 
appeal,  which  have  a  pccuhar  charm  in  the  old  Welsh. 
Bobl  amuyl,  (my  dear  people),  Wrandawyr  tirion,  (my 
affectionate  hearers),  0  cneidiau  gwerthfawr,  (precious 
souls),  Enaid  anwyl,  (beloved  soul),  and  many  like 
them. 

Then,  again,  there  is  the  responsiveness  of  the  con- 
gregation, showing  itself  in  the  face,  the  eyes,  the  move- 
ments of  the  head,  the  posture,  some  leaning  forward, 
others  rising  to  their  feet,  and  above  them  all,  the  loud 
and  earnest  ejaculations,  "Amen!"  "Diolch!"  '^  Moli- 
ant !  "  *' Bendigedig!  "  *  *  Gogoniant !  "  the  English 
equivalents  of  which  (Thanks  !  Praise  !  Blessed  !  Glory  !) 
are,  as  will  at  once  be  noted,  far  less  satisfactory  to  both 
ear  and  heart.  When  the  ''hwyl"  has  come,  the 
"Amen  corner "  spreads  all  over  the  house.  This,  of 
course,  reacts  upon  the  speaker,  and  kindles  his  fervor  to 
a  still  higher  pitch,  until,  at  times,  one  can  almost  im- 
agine himself  at  Patmos,  listening,  with  John,  to  the 
trumpet  voice  of  the  angel,  and  the  apostolic  responses 
of  the  heavenly  hosts. 

VL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF   THE   WELSH  PULPIT. 

Our  sketch  of  the  Welsh  Pulpit  may  appropriately 
close  with  a  brief  summary  of  those  characteristics 
which  gave  it  its  special  and  pre-eminent  power. 

I.  To  begin  with,  it  was  thoroughly  scriptural.  It 
never  entered  an  old-time  Welsh  preacher's  head  to 
make  the  text  a  peg  on  which  to  hang  an  essay.  With 
every  one  of  these  men  to  preach  was  to  proclaim  the 
Word  of  God.  Every  sermon  was  rooted  in  its  text, 
grew  out  of  the  text,  and  had  the  sap,  the  Hving  truth 
of  the  text  running  all  the  way  through  it.  I  have 
seen  John  Elias's  study  Bible  ;  a  large  folio,  with  alter- 


THE   WELSH   PULPIT.  355 

nate  blank  leaves,  every  page  of  which,  from  Genesis 
to  Revelation,  was  written  all  over  with  notes.  They 
were  men  who  read  the  Bible,  read  it  thoughtfully,  read 
it  constantly,  read  it  on  their  knees,  digested  its  con- 
tents, and  got  it  into  the  marrow  of  their  being.  Their 
delight  was  in  the  law  of  the  Lord,  and  in  His  law 
did  they  meditate  day  and  night. 

2.  Their  preaching  was  wonderfully  authoritative. 
No  wonder.  From  beginning  to  end  it  was  "Thus 
saith  the  Lord."  They  had  the  advantage — the  earlier 
preachers  especially — in  that  their  congregations  were 
altogether  strangers  to  the  doubt  and  queries,  the  hy- 
pothetical and  critical  processes,  which  are  to-day  rife 
among  us.  The  new  atmosphere  is  diffusing  itself  in 
Wales,  as  elsewhere,  and  is  affecting  somewhat  the 
quality  of  its  preaching  ;  although  it  is  still  a  note- 
worthy fact  that  the  men  of  power  in  the  Welsh  Pulpit 
to-day,  as  of  old,  are  the  men  who  preach  God's  word 
without  a  quaver  of  hesitation,  or  a  tremor  of  doubt. 

3.  The  large  infusion  of  the  scriptural  and  doctrinal 
element  has  given  to  Welsh  preaching  a  very  definite 
character  of  solidity  and  weight.  The  treatment  of 
this  element  has,  of  course,  varied  according  as  the 
preacher's  mind  has  been  predominently  logical,  or  im- 
aginative, or  practical.  But  the  doctrinal  substratum 
is  never  wanting.  The  allegories  of  Christmas,  are, 
like  the  graveyard  allegory,  theological  personifications. 
Every  link  in  the  chain  of  Williams  of  Wern's  logic 
was  a  fundamental  gospel  truth.  The  Platonic  reveries 
of  Henry  Rees  were  genuine  evolutions  of  Job,  or  Isa- 
iah, or  John.  The  Demosthenic  appeals  of  John  Elias 
were  doctrinal  thunderbolts.  A  sermon  which  is  not 
full  of  thought,  solid  Bible  thought,  has  ever  been, 
and  still  is,  a  non-entity  in  the  Welsh  pulpit. 

4.  The   suffusion    of   solid   thought   with    deep  and 


35^  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

tender  feeling,  is  also  characteristic  of  the  most  effec- 
tive Welsh  pulpit  oratory.  The*  theology  of  the  intel- 
lect as  preached  in  it,  is  at  the  same  time  the  **  the- 
ology of  the  heart. "  Its  logic  is  not  only  "logic  on 
fire,"  but  logic  in  tears.  Its  poetry  and  precept  melt 
in  pathos.  While  some  of  the  sensibility  excited  may 
be  spurious  or  superficial,  being  generated  by  the  skill- 
ful and  tearful  vocal  modulations  of  the  speaker,  it  is 
beyond  question  that  no  preaching  has  been  more  suc- 
cessful in  producing  deep  and  genuine  emotion. 

5.  There  prevails  a  similar  union  of  logic  and  imagi- 
nation. Every  great  Welsh  preacher  is  alike  a  master 
of  practical  logic,  and  an  artist  in  the  use  of  illustration 
and  ornament.  One  rarely  hears  a  sermon  that  is 
nothing  but  dry  bones,  or  a  sermon  that  is  nothing  but 
flowers.  Argument  may  predominate  in  one,  illustra- 
tion in  another.  But  the  combination  of  both  is  the 
rule  rather  than  the  exception,  and  even  the  exquisite 
balance  of  both  is  by  no  means  uncommon. 

6.  Every  one  of  these  preachers  is  still  further  a 
preacher  for  the  people,  addressing  himself  to  the 
people,  using  plain  popular  language,  which  all  may 
understand.  In  no  pulpit  is  there  less  shooting  over 
the  heads  of  the  people,  less  of  abstruse  speculation, 
of  unintelligible  technicalities,  of  the  airing  of  academic 
lore,  or  more  of  the  language  and  knowledge  common 
to  all,  used  with  dignity  and  tenderness. 

7.  The  arrangement  of  thought  and  illustration  is 
also  in  general  skillful  and  effective.  The  law  of 
climax  is  carefully  studied ;  the  weightiest  thoughts 
and  the  most  powerful  illustrations  being  brought  in 
at  that  stage  of  the  discussion  where  they  will  tell  most 
forcibly.  The  same  climactic  arrangement  rules,  also, 
in  the  management  of  the  voice ;  its  pitch,  intonations, 
energy  of  deHvery.     Let  me  here  refer  the  reader  back 


THE    WELSH    PULPIT.  357 

to  the   description  given   from   Dr.  Owen  Thomas,  of 
the  preaching  of  Rowlands,  Llangeitho. 

8.  Very  effective  use  is  made  of  reiteration.  Some 
significant  and  telling  phrase,  generally  taken  from  the 
text,  is  repeated  again  and  again,  until  it  acquires  tre- 
mendous cumulative  power.  So  in  the  great  sermon 
of  Dafydd  Morris,  already  referred  to,  the  words, 
''  Y  Gollcd  Fawr''  (The  Great  Loss)  were  repeated 
with  awful  solemnity  and  effect,  so  that  they  rang  for 
months  and  years  in  the  memories  and  consciences 
of  the  hearers.  So  with  the  use  of  the  words,  '^F 
Gwaed  Hwn  ("This  blood")  by  his  son  Ebenezer 
Morris  in  the  sermon  already  described  and  of  the 
words  ''  Hyn  Bcthati''  ("Which  Things")  in  a  ser- 
mon on  the  text — "  Which  things  the  angels  desire  to 
look  into."  A  wonderful  effect  was  similarly  pro- 
duced by  the  reiteration  of  "  Gwr  Rydd''  ("A  Free 
Man")  in  a  noted  sermon  by  Thomas  Richards,  Aber- 
gwaun.  A  few  years  ago  I  heard  Dr.  Owen  Thomas 
develop  his  theory  of  the  structure  of  an  "Association 
sermon  "  (Pregeth  Gymanfa),  and  I  remember  that  he 
attaches  great  importance  to  this  expedient.  He  also 
values  it  for  its  influence  in  giving  unity  to  the  sermon. 

9.  I  will  just  mention,  without  dwelling  on  it,  the 
distinctive  individuality  of  every  great  Welsh  preacher, 
as  an  element  of  his  power.  To  the  Welsh  hearer, 
accustomed  through  the  itinerancy  to  so  many  types  of 
pulpit  eloquence,  the  separate  individuality  of  each, 
carries  with  it  its  own  charm,  and  is  a  source  of  special 
power. 

10.  Lastly,  and  chiefly  is  the  terrible  earnestness, 
which  is  an  unvarying  characteristic  of  every  master  of 
assemblies  from  Howel  Harris  down.  A  man  who 
heard  Howell  Harris  preach,  said  of  him — "That  man 
preaches  about  hell  as  though  he  had  been  there."    John 


358  LLEWELYN  lOAN  EVANS. 

Elias,  when  a  young  man,  preached  at  a  Monthly  Meet- 
ing in  Merionethshire.  An  old  minister,  Dafydd  Cad- 
walader,  was  asked  :  * '  What  sort  of  a  Monthly  Meeting 
did  you  have  ?  "  "  Well,"  said  he,  "there  was  a  young 
weaver  boy  from  Carnavonshire  there  ;  he  is  just  begin- 
ning, and  we  put  him  to  preach  in  |:he  Monthly  Meet- 
ing. May  the  Good  Lord  keep  him  from  error — the 
people  will  have  to  believe  ivhatever  he  tells  tJierny  So, 
with  Henry  Rees,  John  Jones,  William  Roberts,  Am- 
lwch, and  all  the  rest.  The  power  of  personal  convic- 
tion v/as  in  their  preaching.  They  could  say  each  one 
of  them,   "I  believe,  and  therefore  do  I  speak." 

11.  This  earnestness  was  fed  by  earnest  and  constant 
prayer.  They  were  men  mighty  in  prayer,  Israels, 
princes  with  God.  The  daughter  of  Daniel  Rowlands, 
said  of  him:  ''Hen  weddiwr  mawr  oedd e"  ('*He  was 
a  great  old  man  of  prayer").  John  Elias,  when  quite 
young,  was  put  to  pray  in  an  Association  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  services.  There  was  more  said  about  that 
prayer  than  about  all  the  preaching.  He  spent  a  Sat- 
urday night  at  Liverpool  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Rees. 
Between  four  and  five  o'clock  Sunday  morning,  he 
awoke,  and  overheard  Mr.  Rees  wrestling  in  prayer, 
with  God  for  his  help  to  preach  that  day. 

12.  Then,  how  they  loved  to  preach!  It  was  the 
supreme  joy  of  their  being.  Their  feeHng,  one  and  all, 
was  voiced  by  John  Jones,  Talsarn,  in  the  following 
sentiments  which  were  frequently  uttered  by  him : 
"There  is  no  occupation  on  the  face  of  the  earth  to 
compare  with  the  preaching  of  Jesus  Christ  as  the  Sav- 
iour of  sinners.  Old  John  Brown,  of  Haddington,  used 
to  say,  that  he  would  have  been  content,  if  it  had 
been  necessary,  to  beg  his  way,  from  door  to  door,  all 
through  the  week,  that  he  might  preach  Jesus  Christ 
to  sinners,  on  the  Sabbath.     Indeed,  I  can  assure  you 


THE    WELSH    PULPJT. 


359 


I  should  be  willing  to  do  the  same.  I  often  have  such 
pleasure  in  it  that  I  have  no  idea  how  I  could  be  happy 
in  heaven  without  preaching.  As  for  that  matter,  I 
don't  believe  I  shall  have  to  try  that.  I  believe  there 
will  be  a  great  deal  of  preaching  there.  Oh  !  we  shall 
have  Associations  without  number  there,  such  as  we 
never  saw  the  Hke  of  them  here.  Enoch,  the  seventh 
from  Adam  will  be  there,  the  first  preacher  of  whom 
we  have  heard  :  Isaiah,  the  greatest  preacher  of  the  Old 
Testament ;  Paul,  the  chief  speaker  among  the  Apos- 
tles ;  old  Augustine,  the  greatest  of  the  Fathers  ;  Mar- 
tin Luther,  the  great  Reformer;  George  Whitfield, 
Daniel  Rowlands,  John  Elias,  and  hosts  of  others — 
they  will  all  be  there,  and  in  ' hzvyliau  '  [flights,  '  sails,' 
see  above],  infinitely  higher  than  they  ever  enjoyed  in 
this  world  declaring  the  wonders  of  Grace,  and  praising 
the  merits  of  the  Great  Sacrifice.  And,  indeed,  I  hope 
that  I,  too,  shall  be  allowed  to  try  it  there  sometimes. 
But,  blessed  be  his  name  for  the  honor  of  doing  a 
little  at  it  here,  and  for  the  heartfelt  joy  which  is  granted 
me  in  the  work." 

The  Lord  gave  to  Wales  His  Word ;  great  and  glo- 
rious has  been  the  company  of  its  preachers. 


XIII. 

THE  SCRIPTURE  DOCTRINE  OF  THE  REM- 
NANT AND  OF  NUMBERS. 

In  the  immortal  protest  which  was  adopted  by  the 
Evangelical  Members  of  the  Imperial  Diet  at  Spires  in 
1529,  the  Protestants  gave  as  one  reason  for  not  con- 
senting to  the  repeal  of  the  decree  of  1526:  "  Because 
it  concerns  the  glory  of  God  and  the  salvation  of  our 
souls,  and  that,  in  such  matters,  we  ought  to  have  re- 
gard above  all  to  the  commandments  of  God,  who  is 
King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  Lords,  each  of  us  rendering 
his  account  for  himself,  without  caring  the  least  in  the 
world  about  majority  or  minority."  On  the  basis  of 
this  heroic  declaration  we  are  justified  in  assuming  it  as 
an  essential  characteristic  of  Protestantism  that  in  all 
questions  of  conviction  and  duty,  it  cares  far  more  for 
truth  and  right  than  for  numbers. 

It  so  happens  that  at  this  very  time,  just  when  we 
are  commemorating  the  activities  of  Protestantism  in 
connection  with  the  Four  Hundredth  Anniversary  of 
the  great  Protestant  Leader,  a  distinguished  English 
critic  is  visiting  our  shore  and  lecturing  on  Numbers, 
Majorities  and  Minorities,  declaring  it  as  his  conviction 
that  the  Majority  is  unsaved  and  that  our  only  salvation 
lies  in  the  Minority.  In  this  lecture,  as  you  will  re- 
member, Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  bases  his  opinion  on 
certain  expositions  of  Plato  and  Isaiah.  He  quotes 
Plato  as  saying  that  ' '  there  is  but  a  very  small  remnant 
of  honest  followers  of  wisdom"  and  that  "they  may 
be  compared  to  one,  who  has  fallen  among  wild  beasts, 
who  will  not  be  one  of  them,  but  can  make  no  head 
(360) 


SCRIPTURE    DOCTRINE   OF   THE   REMNANT.  36 1 

against  them,"  and  who  must  be  content  to  "keep  still 
as  it  were,  standing  aside  under  a  wall  in  a  storm  of 
dust  and  hurricane  of  driving  wind,  to  behold  the  rest 
filled  with  iniquity,  if  only  he  himself  may  live  his  hfe 
clear  of  injustice  and  impiety  and  depart  when  his  time 
comes,  in  mild  and  gracious  mood,  with  fair  hope." 

Of  his  other  great  authority,  he  goes  on  to  say: 
**  Isaiah  like  Plato,  with  inspired  insight,  foresaw  that 
the  world  before  his  eyes,  the  world  of  actual  life,  the 
state  and  city  of  the  unsound  majority,  could  not  stand ; 
and  unlike  Plato,  Isaiah  announced  with  faith  and  joy, 
a  leader  and  a  remnant  certain  to  supersede  them." 
Our  Nineteenth  Century  critic,  it  is  true,  somewhat  su- 
perciliously condemns  the  Greek  Philosopher's  views  as 
**  visionary"  and  the  Hebrew  Prophet's  expectations 
as  "  fantastic,"  to-wit,  for  his  time  and  country. 

It  would,  perhaps,  be  not  uncharitable  to  suggest  nor 
difficult  to  prove  that  the  modern  Apostle  of  Hellen- 
ism understands  Plato  a  little  better  than  he  understands 
Isaiah.  My  main  object,  however,  is  to  call  attention" 
to  his  conclusion,  in  which,  after  showing  the  perils  con- 
sequent upon  the  unsoundness  of  the  majority,  he  says: 
* '  From  this  hard  doctrine  we  will  betake  ourselves  to 
the  more  comfortable  doctrine  of  the  remnant.  '  The 
remnant  shall  return '  (quoting  Isaiah),  shall  convert 
and  be  healed  itself  first,  and  shall  then  recover  the  un- 
sound majorities."  "And  you  are  50,000,000  and 
growing  annually,"  he  says  to  us.  "What  a  remnant 
yours  may  be,  surely!  A  remnant  of  how  great  num- 
bers ;  how  mighty  strength  ;  how  irresistible  efficacy !  " 
Taking  my  cue  from  the  declaration  of  our  Protestant 
Magna  Charta,  which  I  have  already  read,  and  from  the 
theme  of  Mr.  Arnold's  first  lecture  in  America,  I  have 
thought  it  might  not  be  unreasonable  to  offer  to- 
night a  few  considerations  on  the  Scripture  Doctrine  of 
Numbers  and  the  Remnant.  Numbers  acquire  their 
chief  significance  from  contrast  or  opposition.  The 
"Remnant"  is  the  result  of  war,  destruction,  exile. 
"Majority"  or  "Minority"  presupposes  opposing  par- 
ties. 

I.  I  find  accordingly  the  first  foundation  stone  of  the 
present  discourse  in  the  ProtevangeHum:     "  I  will  put 


362  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

enmity  between  thee  and  the  woman,  and  between  thy 
seed  and  her  seed  ;  it  shall  bruise  thy  head,  and  thou 
shalt  bruise  his  heel."  Sin  produces  the  moral  antago- 
nism represented  by  the  Serpent  and  the  Seed  of  the 
Woman.  It  is  not  a  question  as  yet  of  numbers,  but 
of  parties.  The  Serpent  is  the  Tempter  Satan,  the 
Personal  head  of  the  kingdom  of  evil.  The  Seed  of  the 
Woman  means  Humanity :  Humanity,  however,  in  a 
complex  sense  and  relation,  (i.)  Even  in  its  ruin  hu- 
manity has  not  lost  all  of  its  godliness.  What  remains 
of  the  godlike  in  fallen  humanity  so  long  as  it  does  re- 
main in  that  humanity  continues  to  make  war  on  the 
Serpent,  on  the  Evil  which  has  wrought  its  own  ruin. 
In  the  heart  of  the  sinner,  in  the  bosom  of  the  race,  in 
society,  the  desperate  duel  goes  on.  It  is  a  duel,  how- 
ever, in  which  advantage  is  all  on  one  side.  It  is  the 
duel  of  the  victim  with  his  victor.  But  (2.)  The  Son 
of  God  comes  to  the  rescue  of  the  victim,  taking  on 
him  his  form  and  nature.  As  the  Son  of  Man — as  the 
Seed  of  the  Woman,  he  conquers  the  Serpent,  bruising 
his  head.  (3.)  This  victory  of  the  Seed  of  the  Woman 
is  the  victory  of  humanity.  In  its  Elder  Brother,  the 
race.  Universal  or  Total  Humanity,  overcomes  Sin. 
The  history  of  the  race  is  the  development  of  this  conflict. 
II.  After  the  Protevangelium,  the  first  decisive  step 
in  the  advancement  of  the  conflict  is  the  Call  of  Abra- 
ham. This  call  is  significant  of  the  Divine  Method. 
The  special  characteristic  of  this  method  may  be  de- 
fined by  the  word  Particularism.  By  this  is  meant  par- 
ticular selection  for  the  accomplishment  of  a  universal 
result.  In  the  selection  of  Abraham  and  his  household, 
note  a  twofold  contrast,  (i.)  The  contrast  of  the /^w 
and  the  many.  Thus,  in  David's  Psalm,  recorded  in  I 
Chron.  16,  we  are  told  "  of  the  covenant  which  He  made 
unto  Abraham  and  of  His  oath  unto  Isaac  and  hath 
confirmed  the  same  to  Jacob,  .  .  .  saying:  Unto  thee 
will  I  give  the  land  of  Canaan  .  .  .  when  ye  were  but 
few,  even  a  few,  and  strangers  in  it.  And  when  they 
went  from  Nation  to  Nation  and  from  one  Kingdom  to 
another  people,  He  suffered  no  man  to  do  them  wrong." 
(2.)  Note  the  contrast  of  the  "  <?;^r, "  and  the  **many,"  or 
**all."     Isa.  51:  2.  "  Look  unto  Abraham,  your  father. 


SCRIPTURE    DOCTRINE    OF    THE    REMNANT.  363 

and  unto  Sarah  that  bare  you ;  for  I  called  him  alone  (or  as 
one,  nnx)  and  blessed  him,  and  increased  him."  Gen. 
12:  3.  "In  thee  shall  all  the  families  of  the  earth  be 
blessed."  Gen.  17:  5.  "Thy  name  shall  be  Abraham, 
for  a  father  of  many  nations  have  I  made  thee."  Gen. 
22:  18.  "In  thy  seed  shall  all  the  nations  of  the  earth 
be  blessed."  Paul  develops  the  idea  of  the  Abrahamic 
Covenant  still  further.  Gal.  3  :  16.  "  He  saith  not,  and 
to  seeds,  as  of  many,  but  as  of  one,  and  to  thy  seed, 
which  is  Christ."  That  is  to  say,  God's  promise  in  its 
historic  realization  does  not  dissipate  itself  amongst  a 
loose,  indefinite  plurality  of  persons,  like  the  grains  of  a 
sand  heap,  but  concentrates  on  a  unit  line,  which  line  is 
embodied,  or  culminates  in  Christ. 

III.  We  find  the  particularistic  method  applied  still 
further  in  the  selection  of  Isaac,  and  the  rejection  of 
Ishmael,  and  in  the  selection  of  Jacob  and  the  rejection 
of  Esau,  each  selection  involving  a  relative  diminution 
of  numbers  by  comparison  with  the  outside  world. 

IV.  The  numerical  contrasts  become  still  more  defi- 
nite in  connection  with  the  Exodus,  (i.)  It  is  evident 
that  the  Israelites,  although  they  had  greatly  multiplied 
in  Egypt,  were  after  all  but  a  handful  when  compared 
with  the  vast  population  of  Egypt,  or  when  compared 
with  the  immense  army  which  under  Pharaoh  pursued 
them  to  the  Red  Sea.  See  Exodus  14,  passim.  (2.) 
The  relative  if  not  absolute  reduction  of  the  number 
of  the  Israelites  by  the  judgments,  wars  and  hardships 
of  the  wilderness,  would  justify  us  in  calling  the  body 
of  men  who  entered  Canaan  a  remnant.  Jer.  31:  2. 
"  The  people  which  were  left  of  the  sword  found  grace 
in  the  wilderness ;  even  Israel,  when  I  went  to  cause 
him  to  rest."  Numbers  14:  31.  "Your  little  ones 
which  ye  said  should  be  a  prey,  them  will  I  bring  in, 
and  they  shall  know  the  land  which  you  have  despised. 
But  as  for  you,  your  carcasses  shall  fall  in  the  wilderness." 
Deut.  32:  10.  "The  Lord  found  Jacob  in  a  desolate 
land,  and  in  the  waste  howling  wilderness ;  He  led  him 
about."  (3.)  When  they  entered  Canaan  to  possess  it, 
the  Israelites  were  a  minority  in  comparison  with  the  Ca- 
naanites.  Deut.  7  :  7.  "  The  Lord  did  not  set  His  love 
upon  you,  nor  choose  you  because  ye  were  more  in  num- 


364  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

ber  than  any  people,  for  ye  were  the  fewest  of  all  people. 
lb.  V.   17.     "If  thou  shalt  say  in  thine  heart,  these  na- 
tions   are    more  than    I,   how  can    I  dispossess  them? 
Thou  shalt   not  be  afraid  of  them,  but   thou    shalt  re- 
member what  the  Lord  thy  God  did  unto  Pharaoh  and 
unto  all  Egypt."     lb.  31:    3.  "  The  Lord  thy  God,  he 
will  go  over  before  thee,  and  he  will  destroy  these  na- 
tions from  before  thee."     This  became  a  fixed  thought 
with  all  devout  Israehtes,  that  success  does  not  depend 
upon  numbers.      Lev.   26:  8.   "  Five  of  you  shall  chase 
an  hundred,  and  an  hundred  of  you  shall  put  ten  thousand 
to  flight."       Deut.  32  :   30.    "How  should  one  chase  a 
thousand,  and  two  put  ten  thousand  to  flight,  except  the 
Lord  had  sold  them,  and  the  Lord  had  shut  (delivered) 
them  up."     Josh.  23  :   10.     "  One  man  of  you  shall  chase 
a  thousand;  for  the  Lord  your  God,  He  it  is  that  fight- 
eth  for  you."      I  Sam.   14:  6.  "There  is  no  restraint  to 
the  Lord  to  save  by  many  or  by  few."     2  Chron.  14: 
II.     "  And  Asa  cried  unto  the  Lord  his  God,  and  said, 
Lord,  it  is  nothing  with  thee  to  help  whether  with  many 
or  with  him  that  hath  no  power  ;  help  us,  O  Lord  our 
God ;    for  we    rest  on   thee,   and    in  thy  name  we   go 
against  this  multitude."     Is.  41  :  14.      "  Fear  not,  thou 
worm  Jacob,  and  ye  few  men  of  Israel."     Think  again 
of  the  grand  inspiration,  as  a  lesson  in  theocratic  num- 
eration, of  such  a  thrilling  fact  as  the  reduction  of  Gid- 
eon's army  from  32,000  to  300  men,  and  the  rout  of  the 
Midianites  by  that  picked  band. 

V.  From  the  time  of  Samuel  to  Uzziah,  King  of 
Judah,  the  golden  age  of  Jewish  history,  the  people,  as 
would  be  expected,  flourished  and  multiplied.  It  was 
now  especially  that  the  promise  of  increase  made  to 
Abraham,  "  Multiplying  I  will  multiply  thee,"  and  also 
through  Moses  (see  Deut.  7)  were  realized  on  their  larg- 
est scale.  The  division  of  the  two  Kingdoms  of  Israel 
and  Judah  was  of  no  special  significance  as  touching  the 
question  of  num.bers. 

VI.- But  when  the  Assyrian  invasions  began  under 
Pul.  (Sardanapalus)  accompanied  by  departures  of  large 
multitudes  to  Assyria,  and  afterwards  to  Babylonia,  a 
special  significance  begins  to  attach  to  the  term  "rem- 
nant," and  the  kindred  terms  "remainder,"  "residue" 


SCRIPTURE    DOCTRINE   OF   THE    REMNANT.  36^ 

and  "left,"  and  to  the  promises  which  specially  con- 
cerned the  "  remnant,"  whether  applied  to  the  remnant 
in  the  land,  or  the  remnant  in  captivity.  Take  the  fol- 
lowing passages  from  Isaiah  1 1 :  1 1  seq.  *  'And  it  shall 
come  to  pass  in  that  day  that  the  Lord  shall  set  His 
hand  again  the  second  time  to  recover  the  remnant  of 
His  people  which  shall  be  left,  from  Assyria,  and  from 
Egypt,  and  from  Pathros  and  from  Cush,  and  from  Elam, 
and  from  Shinar,  and  from  Hamath,  and  from  the  isles 
of  the  sea."  ''And  He  shall  set  up  an  ensign  for  the 
nations,  and  shall  assemble  the  outcasts  of  Israel,  and 
gather  together  the  dispersed  of  Judah  from  the  four 
corners  of  the  earth."  "And  there  shall  be  an  highway 
for  the  remnant  of  His  people,  which  shall  be  left,  from 
Assyria  ;  like  as  it  was  to  Israel  in  the  day  that  he  came 
up  out  of  the  land  of  Egypt." 

VII.  Still  more  significant  and  definite  is  the  use  of 
the  term  in  connection  with  the  great  Babylonian  Exile, 
whether  as  applied  to  those  who  were  left  in  the  land, 
or  to  the  captives  in  the  land  of  their  captivity,  (as  re- 
maining over  from  the  war  and  the  siege)  or  to  the  re- 
turned captives  as  a  remnant  in  the  land,  compared  with 
its  former  occupants.  It  is  more  particularly  in  the  last 
application  that  the  term  acquires  its  most  important 
significance.  The  prophecies,  especi^ally  the  promises, 
relating  to  the  restored  remnant,  are  most  interesting  and 
suggestive.  Note  the  following  particulars  as  character- 
istic of  the  doctrine  of  the  remnant  in  this  its  late  and 
more  advanced  development. 

1.  The  existence  of  the  remnant  is  due  to  the  partic- 
ularizing grace  and  mercy  of  God.  Isaiah  1:9.  "  Except 
the  Lord  of  hosts  had  left  unto  us  a  very  small  remnant, 
we  should  have  been  as  Sodom,  and  we  should  have 
been  like  unto  Gomorrah." 

2.  The  preservation  of  the  Remnant  is  with  a  view  to 
carrying  out  the  purposes  of  God's  Covenant  with  His 
people.  Note  here  to  begin  with,  that  God  has  chosen 
Israel  to  be  His  own  special  possession,  and  has* estab- 
lished His  Covenant  with  them.  Ex.  6\  j.  "I  will 
take  you- to  me  for  a  people,  and  I  will  be  to  you  a  God. " 
lb.  19:  5-6.  **If  ye  will  obey  my  voice  indeed,  and 
keep  my  Covenant,  ye  shall  be  a  peculiar  treasure  unto 


366  llewelVn  ioan  evans. 

me  above  all  people ;  for  all  the  earth  is  mine.  And 
ye  shall  be  unto  me  a  kingdom  of  priests  and  a  holy 
nation."  When  in  course  of  time  the  nation  suffered 
disruption,  deportation,  disintegration,  the  remnant  rep- 
resented the  nucleus,  the  kernel,  with  which  God  still 
maintained  His  covenant  relations.  Thus  in  the  sym- 
bolical prophecy  of  Hosea  (Ch.  i.)  the  second  daughter 
of  fornication  was  called  Lo-Ruhamah  (unpitied)  *  *  for  I 
will  no  more  have  mercy  upon  the  house  of  Israel ;  but 
I  will  utterly  take  them  away." 

The  third  daughter  was  called  Lo-Ammi  (not  my  peo- 
ple) * '  for  ye  are  not  my  people,  and  I  will  not  be  your 
God."  "  Yet  the  number  of  the  children  of  Israel  shall 
be  as  the  sand  of  the  sea,  which  cannot  be  measured 
nor  numbered  ;  and  it  shall  come  to  pass  that  in  the 
place  where  it  was  said  unto  them:  Ye  are  not  my 
people,  there  shall  it  be  said  unto  them  :  Ye  are  the 
sons  of  the  living  God.  Then  shall  the  children  of  Judah 
and  the  children  of  Israel,  be  gathered  together,  and  ap- 
point themselves  one  head, "  and  compare  Hosea  2 :  1-23. 
Zech.  13:  8,  9.  *'And  it  shall  come  to  pass,  that  in 
all  the  land,  saith  the  Lord,  two  parts  therein  shall  be 
cut  off  and  die;  but  the  third  shall  be  left  therein.  And 
I  will  bring  the  third  part  through  the  fire,  and  will 
refine  them  as  silver  is  refined,  and  will  try  them  as  gold 
is  tried ;  they  shall  call  on  my  name  and  I  will  hear 
them.  I  will  say,  it  is  my  people ,  and  they  shall  say, 
The  Lord  is  my  God." 

We  find  the  idea  still  more  vividly  described  by 
Isaiah  (6:  13,)  (Translation  of  Delitzsch) :  ''And  is 
there  still  a  tenth  therein,  this  also  is  given  up  to  destruc- 
tion, which  like  the  terebinth  and  the  oak,  of  which 
w^hen  they  are  felled,  only  a  root-stump  remains;  such 
a  root-stump  is  a  holy  seed."  The  remnant  is  thus  the 
root-stump,  the  stock,  the  nucleus  of  the  people  with 
which  God's  covenant  abides,  and  which  through  every 
disaster  is  the  seed  of  the  future.  It  represents  accord- 
ingly t?he  vital  core  of  the  nation.  The  rest  of  the 
nation  are  disjecta  membra,  which  like  decayed  limbs,  or 
dead  leaves,  fall  away  from  the  living  stock  and  perish. 

It  is  the  remnant  that  lives  on,  it  is  the  remnant  that 
carries  on  God's  Covenant  Plan.      It  is  in  the  remnant 


SCRIPTURE    DOCTRINE   OF   THE    REMNANT.  36/ 

that  God's  Plan  finds  its  ultimate  and  complete  realiza- 
tion. Isaiah  10:  22.  "Though  thy  people  Israel  be 
as  the  sand  of  the  sea,  yet  a  remnant  of  them  shall 
return  or  come  back  to  God." 

3.  And  so  we  reach  another  step  in  the  development 
and  use  of  the  term,  in  which  the  idea  of  relativity, 
fewness,  fragmentariness,  all  but  disappears,  and  the 
word  acquires  a  more  absolute  meaning,  conveying  at 
times  the  idea  even  of  a  multitude  rather  than  of  a  few. 

This  is  particularly  noticeable  in  the  following  passages: 
Micah  2:  12.  "I  will  surely  assemble,  O  Jacob,  all  of 
thee;  I  will  surely  gather  the  remnant  of  Israel;  I  will 
put  them  together  as  the  sheep  of  Bozrah,  as  the  flock 
in  the  midst  of  their  fold;  for  they  shall  make  great 
noise  by  reason  of  the  multitude  of  men.'' 

lb.  4:  6,  7.  "In  that  day  will  I  assemble  her  that 
halteth,  and  I  will  gather  her  that  is  driven  out,  and 
her  that  I  have  afflicted,  and  I  will  make  her  that  halted 
a  remnant  [What  does  that  mean  ?  Note  the  parallel- 
ism] and  her  that  Vv^as  cast  off  a  strong  nation.'' 

The  remnant  therefore  may  be  a  multitude,  a  strong 
nation.  At  all  events  it  is  the  root,  the  seed,  the  poten- 
tiality of  a  great  multitude. 

4.  Another  characteristic  of  the  remnant  is,  it  repre- 
sents the  principle  of  unity  in  Micah  5:3.  "  Therefore 
will  he  give  them  up,  until  the  time  that  she  which 
travaileth  hath  brought  forth — then  the  remnant  of  his 
brethren  shall  return  unto  the  children  of  Israel.  .  .  . 
And  this  man  (the  Messiah  just  mentioned  in  verse  2) 
shall  be  (the)  Peace."  Isaiah  11:  12,  f.  "And  he 
shall  set  up  an  ensign  for  the  nations,  and  shall  assemble 
the  outcasts  of  Israel  and  gather  together  the  dispersed 
of  Judah  from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth.  The  envy 
also  of  Ephraim  shall  depart,  and  the  adversaries  of 
Judah  shall  be  cut  ofl",  Ephraim  shall  not  envy  Judah, 
and  Judah  shall  not  vex  Ephraim."  The  remnant  is 
thus  the  nucleus  by  means  of  which  the  reunification  of 
God's  people  will  take  place,  and  the  original,  vital 
unity  of  the  People  will  be  realized. 

5.  In  like  manner  the  remnant  perpetuates  the  holi- 
ness or  consecrated  destiny  of  the  people.  Isaiah  4:  3. 
"  It  shall  come  to  pass  that  he  that  is  left  in  Zion,  and 


368  LLEWELYN  JOAN  EVANS. 

he  that  remaineth  in  Jerusalem  shall  be  called  holy,  every 
one  that  is  written  among  the  living  (enrolled  unto  life) 
in  Jerusalem."  Zeph.  3:  12,  13.  "  I  will  also  leave  in 
the  midst  of  thee  an  afflicted  and  poor  people,  and  they 
shall  trust  in  the  name  of  the  Lord.  The  remnant  of 
Israel  shall  not  do  iniquity,  nor  speak  lies ;  neither  shall 
a  deceitful  tongue  be  found  in  their  m.outh."  Amos  5  : 
15.  **Hate  the  evil  and  love  the  good,  and  establish 
judgment  in  the  gate ;  it  may  be  that  the  Lord  God  of 
Hosts  will  be  gracious  unto  the  remnant  of  Joseph." 

6.  And  now  we  reach  a  still  more  advanced  point  in 
the  development  of  the  idea.  The  ''remnant,"  repre- 
senting as  it  does,  the  holiness,  unity,  vitality,  of  God's 
people,  representing  in  a  word  the  spirit,  the  .purposes, 
the  powers,  the  prerogatives,  the  possibilities  of  God's 
Covenant  plan — ceases  to  be  an  outcast,  a  fragment, 
ceases  to  occupy  a  negative,  defensive  position ;  it  be- 
comes a  positive,  aggressive,  mighty  force  in  the  world. 

Micah  5:  7,  8.  "And  the  remnant  of  Jacob  shall 
be  in  the  midst  of  many  people  as  a  dew  from  the 
Lord,  as  the  showers  upon  the  grass,  that  turneth  not 
for  man,  nor  waiteth  for  the  sons  of  men.  And  the 
remnant  of  Jacob  shall  be  among  the  Gentiles  in  the 
midst  of  many  people  as  a  lion  among  the  beasts  of  the 
forest,  as  a  young  lion  among  the  flocks  of  sheep;  who 
if  he  go  through,  both  treadeth  down,  and  teareth  in 
pieces,  and  none  can  deliver." 

In  the  first  figure  the  remnant  exerts  the  still  but 
irresistible  power  of  the  dew,  refreshing,  vitalizing, 
transforming,  beautifying  the  world. 

In  the  second  it  exerts  the  more  palpable,  invincible 
power  of  the  lion,  conquering  the  evil  by  destroying  it. 

Zeph.  2:9.  "Therefore,  as  I  live,  saith  the  Lord 
of  Hosts,  the  God  of  Israel,  surely  Moab  shall  be  as 
Sodom,  and  the  children  of  Ammon  as  Gomorrah,  even 
the  breeding  of  nettles,  and  saltpits,  and  a  perpetual 
desolation  ;  the  residue  of  my  people  shall  spoil  them, 
and  the  remnant  of  my  people  shall  possess  them. "  Thus 
the  remnant  subjugates,  absorbs,  assimilates  the  mass. 

7.  And  thus  we  reach  the  final  stage  of  representa- 
tion. "The  Remnant,"  the  "Few,"  the  "Small," 
the  "Scattered,"  etc.,  becomes  the   "Multitude,"  the 


SCRIPTURE    DOCTRINE  OF   THE    REMNANT.  369 

"Many,"  the  ''Nations,"  "  Many  Nations,"  ''All  the 
Nations." 

The  ProtevangeHum  reaches  its  accomplishment  in 
the  Apokatastasis.  The  Seed  of  the  Woman  destroys 
the  Serpent  and  realizes  for  Humanity  its  original 
Divine  Ideal.  The  Seed  of  Abraham  becomes  the 
world's  beatification.  All  the  people  become  the 
People  of  God,  the  Israel  of  Jehovah.  The  Partic- 
ularism of  the  Divine  Plan  merges  in  its  Universalism. 

Isaiah  60:  16  f.  "Whereas  thou  hast  been  forsaken 
and  hated,  so  that  no  man  went  through  thee,  I  will 
m.ake  thee  an  eternal  excellency,  a  joy  of  many  gener- 
ations." "A  httle  one  shall  become  a  thousand,  and 
a  small  one  a  strong  nation."  Jer.  30;  19.  "I  will 
multiply  them,  and  they  shall  not  be  few.  I  will  glorify 
them,  and  they  shall  not  be  small."  "Jer.  33:  22. 
"As  the  host  of  heaven  cannot  be  numbered,  neither 
the  sand  of  the  sea  measured  ;  so  will  I  multiply  the  seed 
of  David,  my  servant. "  Isaiah  49 :  1 8  f.  '  'Lift  up  thine 
eyes  round  about  and  behold  ;  all  these  [nations]  gather 
themselves  together  and  come  to  thee."  Isaiah  52  :  15. 
' '  So  shall  he  (the  Messiah)  sprinkle  [startle]  many  na- 
tions." lb.  53:  II.  "  By  his  knowledge  shall  my 
righteous  servant  justify  many." 

Isaiah  2:  2.  "It  shall  come  to  pass  in  the  last 
days  that  the  mountain  of  the  Lord  shall  be  established 
in  the  top  of  the  mountains,  and  shall  be  exalted 
above  the  hills  :  and  all  nations  shall  flow  into  it  And 
many  people  shall  go  and  say,  come  ye  and  let  us  go 
up  to  the  mountain  of  the  Lord.  (And  He  shall  judge 
among  the  nations,  and  shall  rebuke  many  people.)" 
Isaiah  54:  3.  "Thou  shalt  break  forth  on  the  right  hand 
and  on  the  left ;  and  thy  seed  shall  inherit  the  Gentiles." 

The  doctrine  of  the  Remnant  is  a  peculiarity  of  the 
Old  Testament.  It  grows  out  of  the  history  of  God's 
People  as  I  have  very  briefly  sketched  it,  as  a  series  of 
vicissitudes,  depressions  and  exaltations,  reductions  and 
enlargements,  the  series  losing  itself  at  last  in  the  glo- 
rious perspective  of  the  Messianic  Future,  when  the 
Remnant  shall  multiply  .itself  and  become  the  whole. 
In  the  New  Testament  it  emerges  in  its  Old  Testament 
form  once  or  twice  in  the  writings  of  Paul,  (Romans) 


370  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

more  especially  in  citations  from  the  Old  Testament, 
and  in  discussions  respecting  the  relations  of  Israel. 
On  the  one  hand,  the  negative  side  of  the  term  is  used 
to  justify  the  punishment  and  rejection  of  the  Jews  for 
the  rejection  of  Christ.  On  the  other  hand  the  positive 
side  of  the  idea  is  used  to  justify  the  hope  that  the  Jew- 
ish nation  will  yet  be  restored  through  faith  in  Christ 
and  incorporation  in  the  Church. 

The  idea  of  the  People  D;^n  6  ^aoc,  or  (occasionally) 
the  nation  6  iduo^  is  still  more  prominent  in  the  New 
Testament.  It  comes  out  particularly  in  the  writings  of 
Peter,  and  of  John  in  the  Apocalypse — who  represent 
what  is  called  "  Judeo-Christianity,"  Christianity,  that 
is,  as  seen  through  the  eyes,  as  realizing  the  hopes,  and 
as  described  by  the  tongue  of  a  believing  Jew ;  and  in 
the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews,  in  which  the  writer,  al- 
though an  adherent  and  exponent  of  Pauline  rather 
than  of  Petrine  Christianity,  is  seeking  to  confirm  the 
believing  Hebrews  in  the  Christian  faith. 

The  New  Testament  Doctrine  of  "The  People" 
exhibits  the  following  characteristics. 

1.  The  Christian  Church  is  the  true  Israel  or  Cove- 
nant-People of  God.  It  stands  in  the  line  of  the  Cove- 
nant of  Grace,  and  inherits  all  the  promises  of  God  to 
His  people. 

2.  This  spiritual  people,  this  holy  nation  has  its  own 
organic  life,  and  unity  and  law.  It  is  a  unit.  It  is  Hv- 
ing— nay  more,  it  is  a  Hfe.  It  is  a  commonwealth,  a 
kingdom — yea  verily,  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

3.  Not  only  so — but  it  is  t/ie  people,  the  o?te  people 
according  to  God's  definition  of  the  term.  We  find 
Paul  and  Peter  alike  quoting — as  expressing  a  thought 
of  peculiar  significance  and  emphasis  —  the  Old  Testa- 
ment expression  of  Hosea :  Lo-Ammi,  oh  labq,  no-people. 

"Ye  are  an  elect  race  (i  Pet.  2  :  9,)  a  royal  priest- 
hood, a  holy  nation — a  people  for  God's  own  possession 
— that  ye  may  show  forth  the  excellencies  of  Him  who 
called  you  out  of  darkness  in  His  marvelous  light, 
which  in  time  past  were  no  people,  (oh  lab<^  but  now 
are  the  people  of  God."     (And  so  Paul  in  Rom.  9:  25.) 

Outside  this  spiritual  unit,  this  Divine  organism,  the 
true  Israel,  there  is  nothing  which  can  properly  be  called  a 


SCRIPTURE    DOCTRINE  OF    THE    REMNANT.  37 1 

People.  Everything  else  is  a  No-People,  a  new  agc^re- 
gate  of  units,  a  heap  of  disconnected,  indefinite,  mean- 
ingless individuals.  Hence  we  find  Paul  speaking  even 
of  the  mass  of  the  Jewish  nation  as  r/v£c.  Rom.  3  :  3. 
"  What  if  some  disbelieve?  " 

I  Cor.  10:  7,  9.  "Neither  be  ye  idolaters,  as  some 
of  them  ;  as  it  is  written:  The  people  sat  down  to  eat 
and  drink,  and  rose  up  to  play.  Neither  let  us  commit 
fornication,  as  some  of  them  committed,  and  fell  in  one 
day  three  and  twenty  thousand.  Neither  let  us  tempt 
the  Lord  as  some  of  them  also  tempted  and  perished 
by  the  serpents.  Neither  murmur  ye,  as  some  of  them 
also  murmured,  and  were  destroyed  of  the  destroyer." 
So  again  (Rom.  11:  17,)  "if  some  of  the  branches 
were  broken  off;  "  and  again  (v.  19,)  ''Branches  were 
broken  off."  The  Branches  may  drop,  or  be  lopped  off 
The  Tree  lives.  Indeed  only  the  root-stump  of  Isaiah 
may  remain,  and  still  Paul  would  say  the  tree  lives. 

The  numerical  majority,  the  mass,  is  the  spiritual, 
dynamic  minority. 

4.  The  People  will  absorb  and  assimilate  all  the  peo- 
ples and  no-peoples  of  earth.  This  the  final  issue  of 
God's  plan.  Rev.  21  :  24  f.  "  The  nations  shall  walk 
amidst  the  light  thereof,  and  the  kings  of  the  earth  do 
bring  their  glory  into  it."  "And  they  shall  bring  the 
honor  and  the  glory  of  the  nations  into  it."  The  New 
Testament  Doctrine    of  Numbers   is   briefly  this: 

I.  Written  as  it  was,  while  the  Church  was  yet  in  its 
infancy,  and  a  small  minority,  it  has  much  to  say  on 
the  one  side  of  the  *  Many '  who  represent  the  unregen- 
erate  Adamic  condition  of  humanity,  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  *  Few  '  in  whom  the  purposes  of  Grace  have 
found  as  yet  their  realization.  Matt.  7:  13,  14.  "Wide 
is  the  gate  and  broad  is  the  way  that  leadeth  to  destruc- 
tion, and  ma?iy  be  they  that  enter  in  thereby." 

"  Narrow  is  the  gate  and  straitened  the  way  that  lead- 
eth unto  life,  d,r\d  few  be  they  that  find  it." 

Matt.  22:  14.  "Many  are  called,  but  few  chosen." 
Matt.  19:  30.  "Many  that  are  first  shall  be  last." 
["  Many  shall  be  last  that  are  first."  Rev.  Ver.] 

The  same  relative  condition  of  things  is  implied  in 
such  declarations  as:    i  John  5  :  19.     "The  whole  world 


37^  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

lieth  in  the  Evil  One."  John  i:  lo.  ''He  was  in 
the  world,  and  the  world  was  made  by  him,  and  the 
world  knew  him  not."  John  15:  19.  "If  ye  were  of 
the  world,  the  world  would  love  its  own,  but  because 
ye  are  not  of  the  world,  but  I  have  chosen  you  out  of 
the  world,  therefore  the  world  hateth  you." 

2.  But  on  the  other  hand  —  and  this  is  by  far  the 
prevalent  tone  of  the  New  Testament  expression,  this 
condition  of  things  is  only  temporary.  Hence  it  is  de- 
scribed as  often  by  alwv  as  by  xbop.O!;. 

The  proportions  are  to  be  reversed.  The  Minority  is 
to  become  the  Majority,  numerically  as  well  as  dynam- 
ically. The  Few  are  to  grow  into  the  Many,  the  All. 
Matt.  8:  11.  "Many  shall  come  from  the  East  and 
the  West,  and  shall  sit  down  with  Abraham  and  Isaac 
and  Jacob."  Rom.  8:  29.  "That  he  might  be  the 
first-born  among  ;;^<??y/ brethren.^'  Heb.  2:  10.  "  It  be- 
came Him,  in  bringing  many  sons  into  glory." 

Rev.  7:9.  "I  saw  and  beheld  a  great  multitude 
which  no  man  could  number  out  of  every  nation,"  etc. 
John  3:  16-17.  *'God  so  loved  the  zvorld,"  etc.  "For 
God  sent  not  the  Son  into  the  world  to  condemn 
the  world,  but  that  the  world  should  be  saved  through 
Him."  Rev.  ii:  15.  "The  kingdom  of  the  world  is 
become  the  kingdom  of  our  Lord  and  of  His  Christ." 
Matt.  28:  19.  "Go  ye  therefore  and  make  disciples 
oi  all  the  7iations.''  Mat.  13:  33.  "The  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  like  unto  leaven,  which  a  woman  took  and 
hid  in  three  measures  of  meal,  till  it  was  all  leavened.'' 
Acts  3  :  21.  "Whom  the  heaven  must  receive  until  the 
times  of  restoration  of  all  things'' 

Eph.   I  :    10.     "To  sum  up  all  things  in  Christ." 

Rom.  5  :  15  f.  "  Much  more  did  the  grace  of  God, 
and  the  gift,  etc.,  abound  unto  tJie  many."  "Through 
one  act  of  righteousness  the  free  gift  came  unto  all  men 
to  Justification  of  life."  "Through  the  obedience  of 
the  one  shall  the  many  be  made  righteous. "  The  Many  : 
that  is  the  Race,  Humanity  as  a  Multitude.  The  All: 
that  is  the  Race,  Humanity  as  the  Totality. 

Brief  summary  in  the  way  of  conclusions. 

I.  The  numerical  phraseology  of  the  Scriptures  as 
applied  to  the  Church  in  the  present,  and  as  implying 


SCRIPTURE    DOCTRINE    OE    THE    REMNANT.  373 

that  God's  people  equal  a  remnant,  few  in  numbers,  is 
to  be  taken  as  relative  and  temporary. 

(i.)  They  are  a  few  or  a  remnant  now. 

(2.)  They  are  few  as  compared  with  what  they  might 
have  been  if  sin  had  never  come  into  the  world. 

(3.)  They  are  few  as  compared  with  the  many,  who 
are  as  yet  under  the  power  of  sin. 

(4.)  They  are  few  as  compared  with  the  many,  who 
will  one  day  be  on  the  Lord's  side.  They  are  not  so 
designated  as  implying — 

(i.)  That  they  are  absolutely  few — 

(2.)  That  the  present  proportions  will  always  con- 
tinue. 

(3.)  Or  that  at  the  end  of  all  only  a  few  will  be 
saved.  But  you  may  say :  If  so,  why  when  Christ  was 
asked.  Are  there  few  that  be  saved?  did  He  not  answer 
the  question  in  the  negative  ?  I  answer — I  do  not  know. 
That  he  did  not  say  "No,"  does  not  prove  that  the 
right  answer  is  Yes. 

Had  He  answered  yes, — it  might  have  done  no 
good  ;  might  have  done  harm.  There  are  states  of 
mind  in  which  some  truths — from  the  partial  way  in 
which  they  are  presented,  or  from  the  partial  way  in 
which  they  are  seized  by  the  mind,  hurt  rather  than 
help.  The  practical  answer  which  Christ  then  gave 
was  the  one  then  needed:  ''Strive  to  enter  in  by  the 
narrow  door;  for  many,  I  say  unto  you,  shall  seek  to 
enter  in  and  shall  not  be  able." 

2.  The  Particularism  of  Redemption  also  has  its  spe- 
cial significance  in  connection  with  this  preparatory  tem- 
porary order  of  things. 

3.  Even  as  applied  to  the  present  order  of  things  the 
Particularism  of  God's  Plan  should  be  interpreted  on  a 
large  and  generous  scale.  Paul  teaches  this  when  he 
says:  Rom.  ii:  5,  ''Even  so  then  at  this  present 
also,  there  is  a  remnant  according  to  the  election  of 
Grace."  He  does  not  say — There  is  only  a  remnant, 
but  there  is  a  remnant.  Not  one,  as  the  Prophet  Eli- 
jah said  of  himself,  but  seven  thousand  knees.  Partic- 
ularism devotes  itself  to  saving  all  that  is  possible  out 
of  the  wreck.  It  is  a  Particularism,  an  Election  of 
Grace,  Generosity,  unmerited. 


374  LLEWELYN    lOAN   EVANS. 

4.  Particularism  merges  into  Universalism. 

Some  are  spared  in  order  that  the  world  may  be 
spared.  The  few  are  saved  in  the  beginning,  to  the  end 
that  the  many,  the  all  may  be  saved  in  the  end. 

5.  Both  in  the  particularistic  and  the  universalistic 
stages  numbers  are  to  be  interpreted  as  representing 
the  real  Divine  hving  forces  on  either  side.  It  is  a  ques- 
tion of  dynamics,  rather  than  of  bare  mechanical  Arith- 
metic. The  numerical  minority  may  be,  nay  is,  the 
dynamical  majority.  As  when  you  put  one  before  a 
cipher,  you  raise  zero  to  ten,  so  when  you  put  God 
with  a  few  you  have  a  majority.  The  Remnant  equals 
the  kingdom.  God's  redemptive  Providence  aims  at 
quaHtative  rather  than  quantitative  results.  His  Census 
takes  no  account  of  the  No-People. 

6.  The  Qualitative,  however,  carries  with  it  the 
Quantitative.  The  dynamics  of  God's  plan  work  out 
proportionate  results.  The  statistics  of  His  purposes 
correspond  to  their  vastness  and  their  glory.  The  cen- 
sus of  his  kingdom  demands  the  Arithmetic  of  Infinite 
Love  and  the  Tables  of  Eternity. 

Lessons. — Our  Gospel  is  a  Gospel  of  Hope  and  of 
Joy.  It  is,  verily,  "  Glad  Tidings, "  to  the  world.  Be 
of  good  cheer.  You  are  on  the  winning  side.  Look 
more  to  principles,  realities,  forces,  than  to  numbers 
or  external  results.  Be  not  deceived  on  the  one  side  ; 
be  not  discouraged  on  the  other.  Remember  that  truth, 
life,  progress,  religion,  the  Kingdom  of  God  in  a  word-i^is 
far  more  than  a  question  of  numbers. 

Do  not  be  ashamed  of  standing  with  the  few. 

Do  not  be  afraid  of  being  in  a  minority. 

Do  not  be  disheartened  at  working  with  the  remnant. 

Remember  that  the  remnant  represents  God  and  His 
work,  and  so  always  represents  the  future,  represents 
the  Total  that  counts  in  the  end.  One  then  is  a  ma- 
jority. At  the  same  time  rejoice  in  the  privilege  of 
laboring  to  multiply  the  few,  to  build  up  the  remnant 
into  the  Many,  the  All;  to  the  end  that  God  may  be 
All  in  All 


XIV. 

PERSONAL  CHRISTIANITY.* 

Most  concisely,  though  not  perhaps  in  all  respects 
most  satisfactorily,  I  may  state  the  theme  of  our  present 
discussion  to  be  Pcrsoiial  Christianity.  The  phrase  may 
call  for  a  word  or  two  of  justification.  Can  Christianity 
be  anything  but  personal  ?  An  impersonal  Christianity, 
would  that  not  be  a  logical  self-contradiction  ?  True — 
but  unfortunately  our  practical  thinking  is  already  full 
of  self-contradiction,  and  the  only  way  oftentimes  to 
meet  these  successfully,  is  to  insist  on  the  tautologies 
which  they  obscure  or  deny.  When  Christianity  be- 
comes a  dead  shell,  we  need  to  remind  ourselves  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  vital  Christianity.  When  it  is 
sublimated  into  dreamlike  idealities,  we  are  required  to 
emphasize  Jiistoric  Christianity.  When  it  degenerates 
into  a  mechanical  formahsm,  it  is  time  to  reproclaim  a 
spi7it2ial  Christianity.  When  undue  prominence  is  given 
to  its  abstract,  impersonal  factor,  we  shall  do  well  to 
reaffirm  with  all  earnestness  the  predication  of  a  per- 
sonal Christianity. 

Personality — the  highest  and  the  greatest  of  all  the 
general  predications  of  existence ;  Christianity — the 
highest  and  the  greatest  of  all  the  special  predications 
of  existence ;  the  synthesis  of  these  two  is  an  inherent 
necessity.  The  vital  affinity  between  them  predesti- 
nates their  fusion.        Personality — the  highest  type  of 

^Opening  address  of  his  last  Seminary  Year,  September  lo,  1891, 

(375) 


37^  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

reality;  Christianity  —  the  highest  type  of  quality; 
personality  —  the  consummate  flower  of  being  as  to 
its  essence;  Christianity  —  the  perfect  realization  of 
being  as  to  its  relations  ;  personality — the  divinest  en- 
tity ;  Christianity — the  divinest  expression  ;  the  two  of 
necessity  coalesce.  Each  pre-supposes  the  other,  each 
resolves  itself  into  the  other,  each  intensifies,  exalts, 
and  glorifies  the  other.  Personality  is  alike  the  primary 
and  the  ultimate  fact  of  Christianity;  Christianity  as- 
sures to  personality  its  purest  and  largest  significance. 
The  synthesis  of  the  two,  whether  as  Christian  person- 
ality or  as  personal  Christianity,  is  the  transcendent 
reality  of  being  and  of  life. 

Let  me  ask  you  to  reflect  a  moment,  how  much  it 
means  that  the  profoundest  ,and  most  fruitful  move- 
ments of  religious  thought  and  life  have  their  root  in 
the  more  vital  apprehension  of  the  fact  and  implica- 
tions of  personality.  The  Protestant  Preformation  was 
nothing  less  than  the  uprising  of  personality  as  a  spirit- 
ual force,  in  the  effort  to  throw  off  the  dead  weight  of 
mediaeval  mechanicalism.  Mark  the  power  and  vitality 
of  individualism  both  in  the  formal  and  in  the  material 
principles  of  the  Reformation.  Take  the  formal  prin- 
ciple of  the  Reformation — the  right  of  private  judg- 
ment in  the  interpretation  of  Scripture.  Wherein  does 
its  significance  lie  ?  Just  in  this  :  It  would  brush  aside 
every  intermediate  mechanism  for  the  transmission  of 
the  divine  thought  from  the  Written  Word  to  the 
hungering  heart  of  man.  Rejecting  the  artificial  jets 
of  ecclesiastical  gasworks,  it  would  drink  its  light 
straight  from  the  eternal  stars.  Or  take  the  material 
principle  of  Protestanism :  justification  by  faith.  Where- 
in does  its  significance  lie?  Just  in  this:  It  would 
sweep  away  every  contrivance  which,  in  the  great  crisis 
of  the  spiritual  life,  would  intervene  between  the  Di- 


PERSONAL  CHRISTIANITY.  377 

vine  Personality  and  the  human  personality — and  bring 
the  soul  by  faith  (which  is  a  personal  trust  in  a  living 
Savior)  into  direct  contact  with  the  Infinite  Personality 
that  saves. 

Puritanism,  in  like  manner,  is  the  protest  of  pure 
personality  quickened  and  spiritualized,  against  the  more 
impure  and  impersonal  accretions  of  a  materialized  and 
sensuous  religion.  Its  affirmation  of  simplicity  has  for 
its  motive  the  desire  to  rid  the  renewed  spirit  of  all 
that  would  encumber  and  hamper  its  free  outgoing 
toward  God. 

In  Methodism  again — alike  Wesley's  and  Whitfield's, 
we  see  the  insurgence  of  a  Christian  personality  against 
enervating  conventionalism,  deadening  rubrics  of  an  ex- 
hausted formalism,  the  benumbing  blight  of  a  mechan- 
ical ritualism.  Methodism  is  thus  the  voice  of  the 
Christian  consciousness,  repudiating  its  dependence  on 
external  decaying  appliances,  asserting  itself  against 
the  repressions  of  empty  routine  and  hearsay,  and 
seeking  to  put  itself  once  more  in  communication  with 
the  primary  personal  sources  of  the  deepest,  purest, 
most  sacred  and  abiding  experiences  of  the  soul. 

Or  look  again  at  the  spiritualism  of  Schleiermacher, 
Neander,  Coleridge — what  does  it  mean  ?  In  its  inmost 
essence  it  means  the  rejection  of  unrealities — the  artifi- 
cial fictions,  abstractions,  assumptions  of  a  religious 
empiricism;  or  of  a  traditional  mechanicalism  ;  or  of 
an  a  priori  dogmatism,  which  had  lost  its  grasp  on  the 
immediacy  and  certitude  of  the  personal  communion 
between  the  living  God  and  his  children. 

In  a  word,  every  spiritual  awakening  or  advance  in 
religious  or  Christian  development  approves  itself  as  a 
movement /;w;?  a  religion  of  things — i.  e.,  of  forms,  of 
institutions,  of  external  more  or  less  material  media- 
tions: from  a  religion  of  abstractions,  theories,  dogmas, 


378  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

words,  traditions,  secondhand  appurtenances — to  a  Re- 
ligion of  Personality,  a  religion  which  accords  their  full 
value  to  the  factors  of  the  largest  personal  Hfe  ;  a  religion 
which  lays  its  heaviest  stress  on  tJiose  facts  and  forces  of 
man's  spiritual  being  and  environment  that  are  correlated 
to  the  deepest  needs  and  mightiest  potentiahty  of  man's 
real  self ;  a  religion  which  quickens  into  the  most  vivid 
activity  the  most  central  dominant  quality  of  conscious- 
ness ;  to  that  religion  in  short,  the  verities  of  which  are 
susceptible  of  being  most  adequately  rendered  into  the 
states,  experiences,  movements  and  expressions  of  liv- 
ing mind,  heart  and  soul. 

From  a  Religion  of  Thi?igs  to  a  Religion  of  Personality — 
there  you  have  the  essential  note  of  all  spiritual  prog- 
ress. Indeed  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  all  prog- 
ress defines  itself  as  the  advance  of  personality,  the 
triumph  of  free  spirit  over  the  impersonal  environment. 
Material  progress  is  just  that — personality  handling, 
moulding  the  things  which  surround  it ;  asserting  its 
mastery  over  them,  impressing  itself  on  nature,  trans- 
fusing and  assimilating  all  material  conditions,  elements 
and  forces  to  its  own  uses  and  life.  Scientific  progress 
is  just  that:  finding  the  key  of  Personal  Thought  and 
Purpose  which  unlocks  the  mysteries  of  the  universe. 
Science  is  on  the  hunt  for  Law ;  and  what  is  Law  but 
the  expression  of  the  uniformity  of  Personal  Thinking 
and  Willing  underlying  all  phenomena  of  change  and 
movement?  Nature  is  thus  the  transcript  of  personal 
processes,  the  movements  of  the  Eternal  Mind.  Leave 
out  the  Thinker,  of  what  worth  the  Thought  ?  Nay,  is 
not  its  reality  as  thought,  as  well  as  its  value,  due  to 
the  Mind  back  of  it?  The  discovery  of  truth  is,  in  a 
word,  finding  out  the  ways  and  workings  of  the  Supreme 
Reason.  Herein  lies  the  fascination  of  every  such  dis- 
covery; it  introduces  a  thinking  mind    to   the  Infinite 


PERSONAL    CHRISTIANITY.  379 

Thinker.  Its  joy  is  the  joy  of  thinking,  with  Kepler, 
God's  thoughts  after  him.  Truth  has  thus  both  its 
source  and  destination  in  personality. 

Beauty,  too,  which  eludes  every  definition,  but  the 
attraction  of  which  attests  none  the  less  its  supremacy, 
depends  for  its  power  and  charm  on  its  spiritual  source 
and  quality.  Its  correspondences,  harmonies,  graces, 
its  subtle,  melting  winsomeness,  its  entrancing,  purify- 
ing virtue  have  their  norm  in  the  Divine  Soul,  with 
whom  the  fairest  dreams,  the  purest  loves,  the  sweetest 
raptures  have  their  eternal  home. 

Leave  out  the  personal  factor,  and  you  have  but  a 
crude  congeries  of  things,  nidis  indigestaque  moles,  of  no 
significance  or  worth.  But  bring  all  into  its  proper  cor- 
respondence to  personality;  put  matter  in  its  place, 
mind  in  its  place,  God  in  His  place,  man  in  his  place, 
and  chaos  becomes  cosmos,  and  the  discord  of  atoms 
resolves  itself  into  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

"The  sequences  of  law 

We  learn  through  mind  alone, 
'Tis  only  through  the  soul 

That  aught  we  know  is  known : 
With  equal  voice  she  tells 

Of  what  we  touch  and  see 
Within  these  bounds  of  life, 
And  of  a  life  to  be : 
Proclaiming  One  who  brought  us  hither, 
And  holds  the  keys  of  Whence  and  Whither:' 

Until  Mind  appears,  Matter  has  no  story  to  tell.    But 

"  Man  once  descried  imprints  forever 
His  presence  on  all  hfeless  things ;  the  winds 
Are  henceforth  voices,     .     .     . 
Never  a  senseless  gust  now  man  is  born ! 
The  herded  pines  commune  and  have  deep  thoughts. 


380  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

The  morn  has  enterprise,  deep  quiet  droops 
With  evening,  triumph  takes  the  sunset  hour, 
And  this  to  fill  us  with  regard  for  man, 
Desire  to  work  his  proper  nature  out. 

...    All  tended  to  mankind, 
And  man  produced,  all  has  its  end  thus  far : 
But  in  completed  man  begins  anew 
The  tendency  to  God." 

Thus  *' progress  is  the  law  of  life,"  through  matter  to 
mind,  through  mind  to  God — all  from,  through,  to,  God: 

"  Himself  the  way  that  leads  us  thither, 
The  All-in-AIl,  the  Whence  and  Whither." 

If,  then,  all  progress  defines  itself  as  the  advance  and 
triumph  of  personality,  much  more  will  this  be  true  of 
Christianity,  by  which  alone  progress  along  the  most 
spiritual  and  divine  lines  is  possible  for  man. 

I  would  have  you  now  trace  with  me  the  line  of  this 
divine  movement — so  far,  at  least,  as  to  glance  at  a  few 
of  the  outstanding  headlands  which  mark  its  majestic 
course.  And  let  me  ask  you  at  the  outset  not  to  pre- 
judge the  discussion  as  either  unpractical  or  superfluous. 
I  am  greatly  mistaken  if  it  shall  not  appear  that  a  more 
distinct  and  vital  apprehension  of  Christianity  as  a 
Religion  of  Personality,  in  contrast  with  a  Religion  of 
Things  is  the  one  thing  needed  just  now  to  correct  and 
enlarge  our  conceptions  of  its  contents,  and  to  recover 
for  our  Christian  thinking,  living,  and  experience  much 
of  the  power  which  has  been  lost. 

If  we  are  asked:  "What  is  the  pre-eminent  claim 
which  Christianity  makes  in  its  own  behalf?  "  our  answer 
would  be:  *'It  claims,  first  of  all,  and  chiefest  of  all, 
to  possess  and  to  disclose  the  secret  of  salvation."  "If 
asked:  "Wherein  lies  the  need  of  salvation?"  our 
answer  to  this  again  would  be:    "In  sin."     And  what 


PERSONAL   CHRISTIANITY.  38 1 

is  sin  ?  The  secret  of  salvation  involves  the  secret  of 
sin;  and  the  secret  of  sin  lies  in  personality.  Person- 
ality is  the  power  of  being  other  than  a  thing,  the  power 
of  free  choice,  free  activity,  free  development.  What 
we  call  a  Thing  has  no  such  power.  Its  history  is  a  part 
of  the  series  of  causalities,  of  necessary  changes  and 
effects,  that  we  call  Nature.  Its  course  is  absolutely 
and  irresistibly  determined  by  conditions  outside  of 
itself.  It  cannot  be  other  than  it  is ;  it  cannot  do  other 
than  it  does.  In  such  a  history  there  can  be  no  sin. 
But  neither  in  such  a  history  can  there  be  freedom ; 
and  in  the  absence  of  freedom  the  higher  developments 
of  life,  of  growth,  of  blessedness  are  forever  impos- 
sible. 

Professor  Huxley  has  said:  "I  protest  that  if  some 
great  Power  would  agree  to  make  me  always  think  what 
is  true,  and  do  what  is  right,  on  condition  of  being  turned 
into  a  sort  of  clock  and  wound  up  every  morning  before 
I  got  out  of  bed,  I  should  instantly  close  with  the  offer. 
The  only  freedom  I  care  about  is  the  freedom  to  do 
right ;  the  freedom  to  do  wrong  I  am  ready  to  part  with 
on  the  cheapest  terms  to  any  one  who  will  take  it  of 
me"  (Lay  Sermons :  On  Descartes'  Discourse).  This 
striking  declaration,  much  as  we  may  admire  its  moral 
earnestness,  furnishes  the  elements  of  its  own  refutation. 
If  Mr.  Huxley  could  be  turned  into  a  clock,  the  ques- 
tion of  thinking  what  is  true  and  doing  what  is  right 
would  cease  to  be  a  question  for  him  at  all.  For  a 
machine  there  is,  there  can  be,  no  such  term  as  right  or 
truth.  To  the  clock  it  is  a  matter  of  obsolute  indiffer- 
ence whether  it  goes  right  or  wrong,  Mr.  Huxley,  if 
made  up  of  clock  wheels  and  clock  springs,  and  wound 
up  every  morning,  would  have  had  no  such  desire  to 
do  right  as  he  so  vividly  expresses.  He  would  not  even 
have  wanted  to  be  a  clock,  or  to  be  anything  else,  for 


382  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

the  sake  of  going  right.  A  machine  never  does  right; 
it  never  wants  to.  A  thing  never  goes  wrong ;  it  docs 
not  care  about  it.  In  a  world  of  things,  of  machines, 
of  necessary  causations,  right  or  wrong  doing  would  be 
a  matter  of  no  concern ;  there  would  be  no  recognition 
of  sin,  there  could  be  no  recognition  of  holiness.  Free- 
dom to  do  right  means  freedom  to  do  wrong.  The 
power  to  be  godlike  implies  the  power  to  defy  God,  to 
usurp  the  throne  of  God,  to  put  self  in  the  place  of  God. 
That  is  sin ;  and  the  power  to  commit  sin  is  one  of  the 
inalienable,  awful  attributes  of  personality.  And  the 
further  terrible  penalty  of  that  sin  is  the  loss  of  the 
conscious  dignity  of  personality,  the  willingness  to  become 
a  thingy  to  abdicate  the  freedom  of  a  child  of  God,  to 
submit  to  the  iron  causality  of  influences  urging  to  evil, 
and  thus  to  be  immured  in  the  bondage  of  corruption. 
"  He  that  commits  sin  is  the  bondman  of  sin." 

This,  too,  is  the  curse  of  scientific  materialism,  that, 
having  begun  with  the  evacuation  of  personality,  it  ends 
with  the  elimination  of  sin.  What  theologians  call  sin  it 
declares  to  be  but  one  of  the  myriad  mischances  of  exist- 
ence, brought  about  by  the  evolutionary  sequences  of 
nature.  The  Fall  of  Man  is  simply  a  necessary  incident 
of  progress,  a  stumbling  upward.  Having  thus  no  place 
for  sin,  materialism  has  no  place  for  Christianity;  and 
this  belittling  of  sin  and  of  Christianity,  mark  you,  goes 
hand  in  hand  with  the  belitting  of  personality.  For  let 
us  not  lose  sight  of  the  great  retributive  fact — to  which 
reference  has  already  been  made — that  sin,  being  in  its 
root  and  essence  the  abdication  of  the  regal  rights  and 
functions  of  personality,  means  the  permanent  degrada- 
tion of  manhood,  the  launching  of  a  personal  agent  on 
the  career  of  a  thing,  imposing  the  law  of  necessity  in 
place  of  the  law  of  liberty ;  bringing  the  higher  nature 
into  bondage    to    the    lower;    clipping    the   wings    of 


PERSONAL    CHRISTIANITY.  383 

the  angel  and  bidding  him  to  crawl  in  the  trail  of  the 
worm. 

This,  alas  !  is  the  moral  condition  that  confronts  us  in 
a  fallen  world  ;  a  condition  how  hopeless  in  and  of  itself! 
How  can  a  thing — a  thing,  too,  by  choice — become  a 
person?  how  can  a  self-enthralled  slave  be  made  free? 
how  can  the  earthly  put  on  the  Heavenly  One?  Here 
is  the  problem  to  which  Christianity  addresses  itself. 
What  is  the  first  condition  of  the  solution  of  this  prob- 
lem ?  Manifestly  it  is  the  restoration  of  personality  to 
its  rights  and  functions,  the  resumption  by  the  angel  of 
the  wings  wherewith  it  may  soar  above  the  attractions 
and  gravitations  of  the  natural  life,  and  rise  to  the  lofti- 
ness, largeness,  liberty,  energy,  beauty,  and  fulness  of 
a  life  in  the  immediate  presence  of  God,  and  in  liv- 
ing touch  with  Him. 

And  how  is  this  result  to  be  effected  ?  Manifestly  by 
the  intervention  of  a  Power  from  beyond  the  World  of 
Things,  by  the  influx  of  the  Supernatural  into  the  realm 
of  the  natural.  For  Nature  can  not  emancipate  from 
nature.  The  life  of  a  thing,  or  a  life  which  has  degen- 
erated into  the  life  of  a  Thing,  can  not  lift  itself  up  to 
the  full  height  and  measure  of  a  free,  Godlike  person- 
ality. The  Divine  personality  must  stoop  down,  touch 
the  lower,  degenerated  life,  communicate  itself  to  that 
life,  impart  to  it  its  own  life.  Christianity  is  thus — ob- 
jectively, the  communication  to  man  of  the  Divine  Per- 
sonal Life  ;  subjectively,  the  reception  by  man  of  that 
Divine  Personal  Life;  concretely,  the  re-establishment 
in  man  of  his  lost  personal  life  and  divineness.  As 
Christ  says,  it  is  the  prodigal  ''coming  to  himself,"  the 
outcast  coming  to  the  realization  of  the  Divine  son- 
ship,  and  of  ' '  the  freedom  wherewith  the  Son  makes 
free."  In  the  religious  dialect  of  Peter,  it  is  becoming 
"partakers  of  the   Divine  Nature."     In  the  vivid  sen- 


384  LLEWELYN    10 AN    EVANS. 

tentiousness  of  James,  it  is  the  '' perfect  law,  the  law  of 
liberty,"  ''the  royal  law"  of  love ;  "royal"  as  being 
not  only  the  king  among  laws,  but  the  law  of  kings, 
enfranchising  those  who  obey  it  into  the  rank  and 
rights  of  kingship.  In  the  lofty  mysticism  of  John,  it 
is  the  indwelling  of  the  Divine  Life  in  such  fullness  and 
power  that  absolute  freedom  becomes  inability  to  sin. 
''Whosoever  is  begotten  of  God  doeth  no  sin,  because 
his  seed  abideth  in  him  ;  and  he  can  not  sin  because 
he  is  begotten  of  God ;"  and  there  you  have  Chris- 
tianity's answer  to  Mr.  Huxley's  yearning  after  a  free- 
dom to  do  right  which  will  never  go  wrong.  In  the 
dramatic,  psychological  realism  of  Paul,  it  is  the  Saul- 
ego  dying  into  the  Paul-ego,  and  the  Paul-ego  trans- 
formed into  the  Christ-ego.  "I  no  longer  live,  but 
Christ  liveth  in  me ;  and  that  life  which  I  now  live  in 
the  flesh  I  live  in  faith,  that  faith  which  is  in  the  Son 
of  God."      "For  me  to  live  is  Christ." 

Christianity  thus  presupposes  as  its  fundamental  pos- 
tulate, that  man's  true  life  consists  in  communion  with 
God.  God  is  the  spiritual  complement  of  a  perfect 
manhood,  the  element,  the  atmosphere,  the  home  of 
the  soul. 

"  God  only  is  the  creature's  home, 

Though  rough  and  strait  the  road  ; 
Yet  nothing  less  can  satisfy 

The  love  that  longs  for  God." 

Man's  redemption  is  accordingly  the  re-establishment 
of  this  Divine  Communion,  God  making  His  home  in 
man,  man  finding  his  home  in  God.  "  He  that  dwell- 
eth  in  love  dwelleth  in  God  and  God  in  him."  There 
is  an  awakening  of  manhood  in  the  awakening  of  the 
God-consciousness  within.  To  see  God,  to  know  God, 
to  realize  God,  this  is  the  first  condition  of  seeing,  know- 
ing, realizing  my  true  being. 


PERSONAL    CHRISTIANITY.  385 

Now  this — let  me  emphasize  the  thought — is  an  in- 
tensely personal  process.  First,  you  see,  it  presup- 
poses the  personal  activity  of  God  in  making  Himself 
known,  in  realizing  himself  to  me. 

*'  'Tis  rather  God  who  seeks  for  us, 
Than  we  who  seek  for  Him. 
God  was  not  gone,  but  He  so  longed 

His  sweetness  to  impart, 
He,  too,  was  seeking  for  a  boon, 
And  found  it  in  my  heart." 

The  revelation  of  God  to  the  soul — what  is  it  ?  A 
thing,  a  definition,  a  dogma,  a  book,  an  impersonal  me- 
dium ?  Impossible !  In  any  revelation  of  God,  the 
chief  factor,  the  central,  the  real  factor,  the  factor  with- 
out which  every  circumstantiality  were  an  empty,  mean- 
ingless form,  is  God  himself  Given  God,  all  else  mat- 
ters but  little  ;  given  God,  and  all  the  rest  will  follow. 
Let  God  be  there,  and  the  acacia  bush  in  the  wilder- 
ness will  burn  with  the  splendors  of  the  Shekinah.  Let 
God  be  in  it,  and  the  prattling  of  the  babe  will  say  more 
than  the  logic  of  the  archangel.  The  revelation  thus 
derives  its  original  and  special  significance  from  the  su- 
preme personahty  of  its  Divine  Agent. 

But  this  is  not  all.  The  process  is  one  of  living  per- 
sonal reciprocity.  By  the  divine  correlation  of  energy 
the  personal  activity  of  God  passes  over  into  personal 
activity  on  the  part  of  men.  '*  If  that  I  may  appre- 
hend that  for  which  also  I  was  apprehended."  Before 
the  revelation  can  be  in  any  sense  real  and  complete, 
the  personal  recipiency  must  respond  to  the  personal 
communication.  The  more  of  personality  there  is  in 
the  receiving,  the  larger  will  be  the  revelation.  This, 
you  see,  must  be  so.  There  can  be  no  revelation  of 
personahty  to  a  thing.  There  can  be  no  spiritual  rev- 
elation to  an   unspiritual   intelligence,    for  spirituaHties 


386  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

are  spiritually  discerned.  The  thoughts  which  wander 
through  eternity,  the  sensibilities  which  find  relief  in 
tears,  nay,  which  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears,  the 
spiritual  intuitions  of  divine  realities  and  necessities, 

"Which  are  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
The  master-light  of  all  our  seeing." 

the  moral  convictions,  which,  like  the  bird  of  Jove, 
grasp  the  thunderbolts  of  everlasting  law,  the  deathless 
yearning  after  immortality,  the  delight  in  truth  and 
right  for  their  own  sake,  the  power  of  self-sacrifice  for 
love's  sweet  sake,  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity,  the  in- 
spiration of  divinity — all  this  finds  no  response  below 
the  level  of  pei'sonality.  The  revelation  of  the  su- 
preme, all-perfect  personality  that  we  call  God  can  be 
conveyed  only  to  the  reason,  the  conscience,  the  will, 
to  the  instinct  of  beauty,  the  power  of  love,  the  sense 
of  the  infinite,  the  presentiment  of  eternity.  It  be- 
comes a  revelation  through  the  appeal  which  it  makes 
to  these  divine  constituents  of  our  being,  and  the  re- 
sponse which  it  evokes  therefrom.  God  revealing  him- 
self to  me — what  is  that  ?  It  is  God  correlating  Him- 
self to  this  part  and  to  that  part  of  my  being,  moving 
on  this  faculty,  capturing  that  sentiment,  energizing  such 
a  motive,  asserting  Himself  in  such  a  purpose,  illumi- 
nating a  thought  here,  sweetening  an  experience  there. 
But  mark  it!  these  activities  are  each  and  all  my  own. 
My  personality  expresses  itself  in  them.  I  am  in  them  ; 
God  too  is  in  them :  through  them  I  learn  to  interpret, 
to  realize,  to  know  God.  Apart  from  them  God  were 
a  blank  ;  apart  from  God  they  were  but  shadows,  mere 
possibilities.  Their  activity  is  made  real  by  His.  It  is 
his  coming  into  my  life  which  makes  it  life.  It  is  He 
that  puts  to  flight  the  nightmare  of  the  evil  past ;  it  is 
His  touch  that  quickens,  that  starts   the  vital  currents, 


PERSONAL   CHRISTIANITY.  38/ 

that  Stirs  the  impulses  of  devotion  and  service.  So  does 
Paul  teach,  "That  which  may  be  known  of  God  is 
manifest  in  them,  for  God  manifested  it  unto  them." 
That  is  to  say,  the  external  and  the  internal  revelation 
condition  each  the  other.  Or,  as  Jacobi  puts  it,  the  con- 
sonant of  the  one  finds  its  vowel  in  the  other  ;  and  thus 
the  Word,  the  revelation  of  God,  is  made  complete. 
The  Unknown  God,  whom  before  I  ignorantly  wor- 
shipped, if  at  all,  becomes  known  to  me.  He  is  be- 
come a  reality;  I  have  found  Him.  "If,  haply,  they 
might  feel  after  Him  and  find  Him,  though  he  is  not 
far  from  each  one  of  us."  "Too  late!"  so  does 
Augustine  pour  out  his  soul  in  one  of  his  wonderful 
apostrophes:  "Too  late  I  loved  Thee,  O  Thou  Beauty 
of  ancient  days,  yet  ever  new  !  Too  late  I  loved  Thee ! 
And  behold,  Thou  wert  within  and  I  abroad,  and  there 
I  searched  for  Thee ;  deformed  I,  plunging  amid  those 
fair  forms  which  Thou  hadst  made.  Thou  wert  with 
me,  but  I  was  not  with  Thee.  Things  held  me  far  from 
Thee,  which,  unless  they  were  in  Thee,  were  not  at  all. 
Thou  didst  call  and  shout  and  burst  my  deafness.  Thou 
didst  breathe  odors,  and  I  drew  in  breath  and  panted 
for  Thee.  I  tasted — and  hunger  and  thirst.  Thou 
touchedst  me,  and  I  burned  for  Thy  peace  "  (Confessions, 
Book  X.)  Even  so;  God  touching  me  until  my  being 
is  on  fire  with  Himself;  God  thinking  Himself  into  my 
thoughts ;  God  loving  Himself  into  my  love ;  God  Hv- 
ing  Himself  into  my  life — that  is  revelation,  that  is  re- 
ligion, that  is  Christianity,  that  is  life!  "With  Thee 
is  the  fountain  of  life ;  in  Thy  light  shall  we  see 
light."  What  I  see  as  a  luminous,  indubitable  reaHty, 
I  see  in  God's  light.  In  that  outstreaming  of  God,  that 
Divine  halo,  I  exercise  intuition,  reflection,  faith,  wor- 
ship. God's  shining  is  all  around  me  and  through  me ; 
in  that  shining;  I  behold  and  believe.     God's  warmth  is 


388  LLEWELYN    10 AN    EVANS. 

all  about   me  and  within  me ;  in  that  warmth  I   feel. 
God's  love  floods  my  being ;  in  that  love  I  love. 

Our  personal  activities  are  thus  respondent  to  the 
personal  activities  of  God.  "We  love  because  He  first 
loved  us."  The  consciousness  of  God  heightens,  deep- 
ens, widens  the  sense  of  our  personal  consciousness; 
and  in  this  enlargement  and  exaltation  of  the  latter,  God 
becomes  credible,  knowable,  real.  The  dignity  of  per- 
sonality in  man,  the  reality  of  personality  in  God — each 
conditions  the  other.  In  every  revelation  God  must  be 
interpreted  through  the  soul.  The  objective  self-mani- 
festation of  God  necessarily  comes  first;  but  this  can 
become  a  completed  revelation  only  through  the  sub- 
jective interpretation  and  appropriation.  God  becomes 
a  part  of  me  only  through  my  partaking  of  Him. 

Monergism  and  Synergism  are  equally  true,  and  each 
is  necessary  to  the  other.  Without  monergism — i.e., 
without  the  primal  Divine  Energy,  there  can  be  no 
synergism — i.e.,  there  can  be  no  answering  co-operant 
energy  of  the  human  coefficent.  Without  synergism — 
i.e.,  without  the  co-operating  human  coefficient,  mon- 
ergism would  fail  of  its  consummation  ;  for  even  the 
Divine  Energy  is  graduated  by  that  in  which  it  works. 
The  Divine  Energy  in  the  worm  cannot  furnish  the 
measure  of  the  Divine  Energy  in  Augustine,  or  Luther, 
or  Wesley.  The  more  the  man,  the  more  the  God 
within  him ;  the  more  the  God  within,  the  more  the 
man.  Our  Lord's  paradox,  "God  is  able  of  these 
stones  to  raise  up  children  unto  Abraham,"  is  an  in- 
controvertible truth,  but  it  is  the  truth  of  hyperbole. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  God  never  does  raise  a  spiritual 
aristocracy  out  of  dead  stones.  But,  as  the  Apostle 
Paul  shows,  the  seed  of  Abraham  embraces  those,  and 
only  those  who  are  of  the  faith  of  Abraham  (Gal.  iii :  7) ; 
and  the  faith  of  Abraham,  as  the  same  Apostle  shows 


PERSONAL    CHRISTIANITY.  389 

(Rom.  iv:  19-21),  is  the  highest  exponent  of  spiritual 
energy  which  the  world  has  ever  seen ;  the  noblest  ac- 
tivity of  which  a  finite  personality  is  capable.  Through 
that  activity,  as  the  Apostle  James  also  shows  (ii:  23), 
Abraham  reached  the  loftiest  personal  dignity  to  which 
man  can  aspire.  ''Abraham  believed  God  .  .  .  and  he 
was  called  the  friend  of  God." 

A  parallel  truth  we  find  in  the  inspired  teaching  that 
we  attain  to  the  Vision  of  God  through  personal  self- 
purification.  ''  Follow  after  the  sanctification,  without 
which  no  man  shall  see  the  Lord."  ''Blessed  are  the 
pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God."  And  how  much 
is  implied  in  that  wonderful  declaration  of  our  Lord's, 
"This  is  life  eternal  that  they  should  know  Thee,  the 
only  true  God,  and  Him  who  Thou  didst  send,  even 
Jesus  Christ!"  Mark  the  expression!  The  highest  pos- 
sible knowledge  of  God,  the  knowledge  of  God  in  the 
uniqueness  and  the  reahty  of  His  being,  is  life ;  not  a 
single  activity  of  life  —  not  intellectual  life  merely,  not 
moral  life  alone,  but  life  itself  in  its  generic  fulness  and 
absoluteness;  eternal  Hfe,  the  climax,  the  maximum  of 
life,  life  at  its  highest,  longest,  largest,  best.  But  mark, 
farther,  the  complete  statement!  "This  is  life  eternal, 
to  know  God  and  Him  whom  God  sent,  even  Jesus 
Christ,"  to  know  God,  that  is,  in  the  ultimate  expres- 
sion of  Himself,  in  the  definite,  historic,  personal  em- 
bodiment of  His  perfections  and  purposes  in  Jesus 
Christ. 

And  here  we  strike  upon  the  very  core  of  Christian- 
ity as  the  Religion  of  the  Incarnation.  As  was  said 
already,  Christianity  is  characteristically  not  a  Religion 
of  Things,  not  a  religion  of  abstractions  or  dogmas,  but 
of  Personal  Realities.  It  is  so  pre-eminently  in  its  re- 
velation of  God.  In  Christianity  we  have,  if  I  may  say 
so,  the  ultimatum  of  the  Divine  Personality.    The  Relig- 


39^  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

ion  of  Nature  gives  us  indeed  a  personal  God ;  but  this 
truth  is  beset  with  constant  peril  from  the  liabilities  of 
our  sinful  humanity,  from  a  debased  anthropomorphism, 
a  vague  pantheism,  a  coarse  materialism,  a  shallow 
Pyrrhonism.  Even  in  Judaism  the  Divine  Personality 
is  lost  in  a  Divine  Legality.  The  Law  itself,  by  which 
God  speaks,  comes  between  the  people  and  God.  At 
the  reading  of  Moses  a  veil  lieth  upon  the  heart.  Every- 
where, in  Gentilism  and  in  Judaism,  there  is  still  some- 
thing lacking  to  keep  the  world  in  touch  with  God.  The 
Most  High  must  come  lower  yet,  nearer  yet  to  man. 
There  must  be  a  face-to-face  beholding  of  the. Divine 
Glory,  heart  to-heart  contact  with  the  Divine  Life. 
This  is  what  the  Gospel  assures  us  took  place  in  the 
Incarnation.  In  Christ  the  veil  is  taken  away.  He  is 
the  last  and  the  greatest  of  the  Theophanies.  ''  He  that 
hath  seen  Me  hath  seen  the  Father."  "The  Word 
was  God  .  .  .  and  the  Word  became  flesh,  and  taber- 
nacled among  us."  In  the  Incarnate  Logos  the  Divine 
Personality  becomes  a  historic,  visible,  audible,  tangible 
reality.  "That  which  was  from  the  beginning,  that 
which  we  have  heard,  that  which  we  have  seen  with 
our  eyes,  that  which  we  beheld  and  our  h^nds  handled, 
concerning  the  Word  of  Life  (and  the  life  was  mani- 
fested, and  we  have  seen  and  bear  witness,  and  de- 
clare unto  you  the  life,  the  eternal  life,  which  was  with 
the  Father,  and  was  manifested  unto  us),  that  which  we 
have  seen  and  heard  declare  we  unto  you." 

Christ  is  the  practical  answer  to  the  difficulties  and 
contradictions  of  our  earthly  metaphysics  in  its  specula- 
tions about  the  Divine  Personality.  In  Christ  we  find 
the  actual  reconciliation  of  the  infinite  with  the  limita- 
tions of  a  personal  consciousness.  In  Christ  as  a  historic 
personality,  the  belief  in  a  personal  God  ceases  to  be  an 
insoluble  logical  paradox,  and  becomes  a  rapturous,  in- 


PERSONAL    CHRISTIANITY.  39 1 

spiring  reality.  At  His  feet  our  Doubt  falls  down  in 
lowly,  holy  adoration,  crying  out,  "My  Lord  and  my 
God!"  Christ — who  will  not  admit  it? — Christ  is  the 
hving  personal  embodiment  of  the  Highest  Being,  of  the 
Most  Perfect  Life.  In  Him  the  Fulness  of  the  Godhead 
dwelleth  bodily,  and  in  Him  we  are  made  full.  Out  of 
Him  remains  the  infinite  void,  the  eternal  unrest.  "  My 
heart  and  my  flesh  crieth  out  for  the  living  God. "  "  Oh, 
that  I  knew  where  I  m.ight  find  Him  !  "  So  rings  out  the 
wail  of  the  ages,  the  sad  refrain  of  humanity. 

Where  is  God? — for  a  God  man  must  have.  "If 
there  were  no  God  it  would  be  necessary  to  invent 
Him. "  Even  so,  Voltaire !  Thought  must  have  a  God — 
an  Infinite  in  relation  to  whom  there  is  no  Beyond. 
Worship  must  have  a  God — a  Highest  than  whom  there 
can  be  no  higher.  Conscience  must  have  a  God — a 
Supreme  Will,  whose  absolute  masterhood  is  law,  whose 
Yea  is  life,  whose  Nay  is  death.  Love  must  have  a 
God — consummate  Perfection,  forever  satisfying  the  en- 
larging capacities,  the  crescent  hopes,  the  ever-mounting 
aspirations,  the  ever-widening  and  deepening  activities 
of  the  ever-growing  life  eternal.  Oh  God  !  God  !  God ! 
Where  shall  we  look  for  Thee  ?  Where  shall  we  find 
Thee?  Our  thoughts  scale  the  firmaments;  where  art 
Thou  ?  Our  prayers  climb  the  heavens ;  where  art  Thou  ? 
Our  dreams  soar  over  the  infinities  and  sweep  through 
the  eternities  ;  where  art  Thou  ?  Our  speculations  plunge 
into  the  blazing,  bhnding  suns  of  light;  where  art 
Thou  ?  Our  despair  storms  the  darkness,  and  treads 
the  pathless  depths  of  mystery;  where,  oh,  where  art 
Thou  ? 

Ah  !  my  soul,  not  thus  shalt  thou  find  God,  not  thus 
shalt  thou  enter  into  thy  rest.  "The  Righteousness 
which  is  of  faith  saith  thus :  Say  not  in  thy  heart,  W^ho 
shall  ascend  into  heaven  ?   That  is,  to  bring  Christ  down  ; 


392  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

or,  Who  shall  descend  into  the  abyss  ?  That  Is,  to  bring 
Christ  up  from  the  dead.  But  what  saith  it?  The 
word  is  nigh  thee,  in  thy  mouth  and  in  thy  heart;  that 
is  the  word  of  faith  which  we  preach."  Philip  cries 
out:  "Lord,  show  us  the  Father,  and  it  sufficeth  us." 
Jesus  answers,  ''  Have  I  been  so  long  time  with  you, 
and  dost  thou  not  know  me,  Philip?  He  that  hath  seen 
Me  hath  seen  the  Father:  how  sayest  thou,  Show  us 
the  Father?"  "They  shall  call  His  name  Immanuel." 
God  with  us  !  God  in  the  midst  of  us !  God  on  earth ; 
among  men  ;  Himself  a  man  ;  stooping  to  the  depths ; 
lifting  to  the  heights;  bearing  humanity's  burdens; 
sharing  the  world's  woes;  weeping  human  tears;  faint- 
ing from  the  weakness  of  the  flesh ;  pouring  forth  hu- 
man blood,  yet  bringing  into  the  weakness  and  guilt  and 
misery  of  earth,  bringing  into  the  broken,  bleeding  life 
of  man  the  condescension,  the  sympathy,  the  strength, 
the  wisdom,  the  righteousness,  the  holiness,  the  love, 
the  All  of  the  Infinite  God  !  Having  this,  what  need 
we  more  ?  If  God  be  not  here,  where  shall  we  find 
Him  ?  Christ !  for  this  Infinite  of  Wisdom,  Power, 
Righteousness,  Love,  where  can  thought  find  a  Beyond? 
Christ !  in  presence  of  this  Highest,  where  is  the  Higher 
can  woo  away  our  worship?  Christ!  what  other  Master 
can  ever  claim  or  win  the  allegiance  of  the  soul  that 
wears  His  yoke  ?  Christ !  what  fuller,  larger  Perfection 
can  ever  lure  our  love  from  His  supreme  excellence? 
Christ !  what  can  God  be  more  unto  us  than  Christ  is  ? 
wherein  can  God  do  more  for  us  than  Christ  does?  The 
revelation  of  Christ  solves  forever  the  mystery  of  per- 
sonality, whether  in  God  or  man.  He  puts  man  in  pos- 
session of  God.  ''  He  that  hath  the  Son  hath  the  Fa- 
ther."  Christ  puts  man  in  possession  of  the  divinest 
manhood.  "As  many  as  received  Him,  to  them  gave 
He  the  right  to  become  sons  of  God." 


PERSONAL    CHRISTIANITY.  393 

The  Divine  Life  in  all  its  forms  and  manifestations 
thus  centres  in  Christ,  radiates  from  Him.  Religion 
reaches  its  highest  expression  in  this  Divine-Human 
Life.  Christianity  means  Christ.  Theology  in  Scrip- 
ture is  first  and  chiefly  Christology.  "  No  man  hath 
seen  God  at  any  time ;  God  only-begotten,  who  is  in 
the  bosom  of  the  father,  He  hath  declared  Him."  The 
doctrine  of  God  is  the  doctrine — that  is,  in  true  Scrip- 
tural usage,  the  teaching,  the  exegesis  of  Christ ;  not 
dogma  about  Christ,  but  the  personal  teaching  of  Christ 
Himself.  And  Christianity  is  not  the  teaching  of  Christ 
alone,  but  All  of  Christ.  Not,  I  say  again,  something 
about  Christ,  but  the  Living  Christ  attesting  Himself 
by  His  personal  presence  and  His  personal  work  in  the 
world.  Christianity  is  not  a  Thing,  a  dogma,  a  sys- 
tem, a  process,  but  a  person  ;  Christianity,  once  and 
again,  means  Christ.  The  Church  is  not  a  Thing,  a 
machine,  an  agency ;  the  Church  means  Christ,  for  it  is 
''the  Fulness  of  Him  that  filleth  all  in  all."  The 
Bible  is  not  a  Thing,  not  the  letter,  the  book,  but  the 
Spirit;  "and  the  Lord  is  the  Spirit."  The  Bible  means 
Christ.  The  life  of  the  Written  Word  is  the  living 
Personal  Word.  The  truth  means  Christ,  the  whole 
of  Christ.  "  Has  Christ  been  divided?  "  Alas!  Paul, 
yes.  In  Corinth?  Aye,  and  in  Antioch  and  Alex- 
andria, and  Rome  and  in  Geneva,  in  the  first  century 
and  in  the  nineteenth.  We  have  divided  the  Living 
Christ  into  partial  representations,  half-living  dogmas 
about  Christ.  We  need  once  more  to  personalize  our 
truths  and  our  beliefs,  to  find  in  Christ  the  eternal  in- 
carnation, the  living  impersonation  of  the  great  verities 
and  realities  of  our  faith. 

There  is  an  earnest  cry  for  a  Christo-centric,  and,  if 
I  may  add  an  adjective,  a  Christo-metric  theology.  I 
heartily  unite  in  the  cry.      Christ  at  the  centre ;  Christ 


394  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

also  as  the  radius,  measuring  with  His  Infinitude  every 
truth  that  radiates  from  that  centre.  No  less  a  meas- 
ure than  the  Christ-measure  will  suffice  for  any  fact  or 
truth  of  Christianity.  Do  we  inquire  respecting  God's 
eternal  purpose  ?  Let  us  seek  the  interpretation  and 
the  metre  in  Christ.  Sovereignty,  election,  predestina- 
tion ?  Each  is  a  paraphrase  of  Christ.  Whatever 
Christ  means,  sovereignty  means  that.  Wherever 
Christ  reaches,  grace  reaches  there.  As  large  as  Christ 
may  be,  so  large  is  God's  redemptive  purpose.  Atone- 
ment is  no  mere  Divine  mechanism,  the  skillful  adjust- 
ment of  expedients  or  balancing  of  equivalents.  *'HE 
is  the  propitiation  for  our  sins."  Christ  in  the  breach, 
Christ  filling  the  dreadful  chasm  occasioned  by  sin, 
Christ  reaching  all  the  way  from  the  trembling  culprit 
to  the  Throne  with  its  everlasting  thunders.  Redemp- 
tion is  no  mere  formula,  no  prescription  from  a  Divine 
pharmacopoeia.  Throughout,  it  is  Christ's  personal  effi- 
ciency. The  measure  of  Christ,  of  His  personality, 
of  His  personal  force  and  life,  that  is  the  measure  of 
redemption.  He  gives  the  breadth  and  length  and 
height  and  depth  of  it.  Redemption  is  Christ.  He  is 
the  All  of  it.  "  Of  Him  are  ye  in  Christ  Jesus,  who 
was  made  unto  us  wisdom  from  God,  and  righteous- 
ness, and  sanctification,  and  redemption."  Mark  well 
the  statement :  Christ  was  made  Wisdom,  and  Christ 
was  made  Righteousness,  and  Christ  was  made  Sancti- 
fication, and  Christ  was  made  Redemption.  Our  wis- 
dom is  not  a  creed,  but  a  Person  ;  our  righteousness  is 
not  an  abstract  quality,  but  a  Personal  Reality  ;  our 
sanctification  is  not  an  impersonal  process,  but  a  Per- 
sonal Life ;  our  redemption  is  not  a  supernatural  life- 
saving  apparatus,  but  a  Personal  God,  putting  Himself 
into  the  work  of  our  salvation.  Formulas,  creeds, 
arrangements,  institutions,  things  of  whatever  kind,  are 


PERSONAL  CHRISTIANITY.  395 

well  enough  in  their  place,  but  that  place  is  secondary. 
Christ  first — all  the  rest  will  follow. 

"  I  am  the  Way,  The  Truth,  and  The  Life."  Breth- 
ren, as  we  start  on  the  work  of  our  new  seminary  year, 
let  us  take  those  words  as  our  motto.  Let  us  make 
Christ  our  way,  our  path  in  every  line  of  research,  the 
chart  by  which  we  determine  every  step,  the  method 
by  which  we  strive  for  every  goal,  the  philosophy  of 
our  life,  of  duty,  and  of  destiny.  Let  us  make  Christ 
our  Truth ;  Truth  not  as  a  logical  abstraction,  but  as  a 
Divine  Impersonation  ;  the  Truth  which  is  the  core  of 
all  that  is  true,  the  pith  of  all  integrity,  the  substance 
of  all  reality — that  which  we  see  with  the  eye  of  Christ, 
which  we  test  by  the  mind  of  Christ,  which  we  assimi- 
late by  the  spirit  of  Christ — Christ  in  every  truth, 
until  it  becomes  an  apocalypse  of  the  ineffable  Glory ! 
Let  it  be  our  aim  not  to  learn  about  Christ,  but,  in 
PauHne  phrase,  ''to  learn  Christ."  Let  us  make  Christ 
our  Life ;  the  principle  and  law  of  our  living,  the  sum 
of  all  our  being,  our  having,  our  doing.  Let  all  be  from, 
through,  in,  unto  Christ.  Our  surrender  to  others,  our 
devotion  to  humanity,  let  it  be  for  His  sake.  What 
we  do  for  ourselves,  let  it  be  for  Christ.  Seek  the  most 
full  and  accurate  knowledge— for  Christ!  the  broadest 
culture — for  Christ !  the  largest  and  most  vigorous  un- 
folding of  all  your  powers  and  capacities — for  Christ ! 
Personal  Christianity  transformed  into  the  grandest 
Christian  personality — all  for  Christ's  sake  !  "Awake, 
thou  that  sleepest,  and  arise  from  the  dead,  and  Christ 
shall  shine  upon  thee."  Oh,  for  that  waking  !  to  come 
forth  into  that  sunrise !  Out  of  all  our  darkness  and 
weakness,  our  numbness  and  deadness,  into  the  light, 
the  glow,  the  power,  and  the  glory  of  that  beatific 
Christ-Shine!  Thus  to  shine  with  the  Christ  be  it 
your  pre-eminent  privilege  and  Service. 


396  LLEWELYN    10  AN    EVANS. 

"  What  is  this  psalm  from  pitiable  places 

Glad  where  the  messengers  of  peace  have  trod  ? 
Whose  are  those  beautiful  and  holy  faces 
Lit  with  their  loving,  and  aflame  with  God  ? 

"  Aye  unto  these  distributeth  the  Giver 

Sorrow  and  sanctity,  and  loves  them  well, 
Grants  them  a  power  and  passion  to  deliver 

Hearts  from  the  prison-house  and  souls  from  hell  ? 

"  This  hath  He  done,  and  shall  we  not  adore  Him  ? 
This  shall  He  do,  and  can  we  still  despair  ? 
Come,  let  us  quickly  fling  ourselves  before  Him, 
Cast  at  His  feet  the  burden  of  our  care. 

"  Flash  from  our  eyes  the  glow  of  our  thanksgiving, 
Glad  and  regretful,  confident  and  calm, 
Then  through  all  life,  and  what  is  after  living 
Thrill  to  the  tireless  music  of  a  psalm. 

"Yea,  through  life,  death,  through  sorrow  and  through  sinning 
He  shall  suffice  me,  for  He  hath  sufficed ; 
Christ  is  the  end,  for  Christ  was  the  beginning, 
Christ  the  beginning,  for  the  end  is  Christ." 


XV. 

FAREWELL   ADDRESS.* 

Dear  Brethren: — Following,  as  I  believe,  the  direction 
of  Providence,  I  have  found  it  necessary  to  take  my 
departure  before  the  close  of  the  Seminary  year,  and  am 
thereby  prevented  from  discharging  the  duty,  which 
would  have  fallen  to  me  in  course  as  Chairman  for  the 
year,  of  addressing  to  the  class  such  words  of  counsel  and 
encouragement  as  by  custom  accompany  the  delivery 
of  diplomas.  The  Faculty  having  kindly  united  in  the 
request  that  I  should  leave  a  few  parting  words  to  be 
read  in  my  absence,  I  take  pleasure  in  complying  there- 
with. The  request  has  appealed  to  me  with  peculiar 
force,  because  the  life  of  the  class  has  coincided  with  a 
particular  section  of  my  own  seminary  life,  which  has 
been  marked  by  special  manifestations  of  the  divine 
favor,  beginning,  as  it  did,  three  years  ago,  with  the 
resumption  of  service  after  a  temporary  suspension, 
which  had  been  made  necessary  by  bodily  infirmity,  and 


*Dr.  Evans  was  Chairman  of  the  Faculty  the  last  year  of  his  connec- 
tion with  the  Seminary,  and  it  devolved  upon  him  to  deliver  the  part- 
ing address  to  the  class  of  1892.  When  it  was  found  necessary  for  him 
to  leave  before  the  end  of  the  year  he  consented,  at  the  urgent  request 
of  the  Faculty,  to  write  some  parting  words.  This  he  did  in  the  follow- 
ing address,  which  was  read  to  the  class  by  Professor  Smith. 

(397) 


398  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

ending  as  it  does,  with  the  terminating  of  my  connec- 
tion with  the  Seminary  which  you  and  I  together  honor 
and  love  as  our  theological  mother.  These  three  years 
have  been  to  me,  as  I  doubt  not  they  have  been  to  you, 
years  of  multiphed  tokens  of  the  divine  interest  in  our 
personal  history,  of  increasing  clearness  in  our  percep- 
tion of  the  divine  leadership,  of  constant  enlargement 
in  the  prosecution  of  our  work,  and  of  an  ever-deepen- 
ing sense  of  blessedness  in  surrendering  ourselves  to  the 
providential  demands  of  the  calling  wherewith  we  have 
been  called.  To  you,  as  well  as  to  me,  they  will  ever 
stand  forth  apart  from  all  the  years  which  went  before, 
or  which  may  come  after,  as  a  special,  determinate,  and 
precious  epoch  of  our  life. 

It  is  often  the  case,  when  we  come  to  these  moment- 
ous turning  points,  such  as  you  in  your  life  course,  and 
I  in  mine,  have  now  reached,  that  we  seem  to  ourselves 
to  be  even  as  those  who  dream.  The  past  seems  to  be 
drifting  away  from  us,  like  a  thickening  mist.  The 
future  seems  to  be  moving  upon  us,  like  a  dissolving 
mirage.  The  present  seems  to  quaver  under  our  feet, 
like  shifting  quicksand.  We  scarcely  know  whether  we 
ourselves  are  flesh  and  blood,  or  ghosts.  The  experi- 
ence is,  happily,  a  transient  mood,  the  psychological  con- 
ditions of  which  are  not  far  to  seek.  But  it  readily 
suggests,  when  our  mood  changes  to  that  of  earnest 
reflection  on  the  past  and  sober  forecast  of  the  future, 
accompanied  by  faithful  probing  of  the  present,  the  con- 
sideration of  the  question,  What  of  the  reality?  If  we 
are  not  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,  how  shall  we 
realize  what  we  are?  If  the  world  of  truth  be  not  a 
world  of  phantoms,  how  shall  we  make  sure  of  that, 
and  how  shall  we  properly  and  vitally  correlate  the  real- 
ity without  to  the  reality  within,  and  bring  the  two  into 
loving  and  working  accord?     This  is,  I  take  it,  at  all 


FAREWELL    ADDRESS.  399 

times  the  problem  of  living-.  This  is  for  you,  this  is  for 
me,  the  particular  problem  of  this  hour.  Let  us  for  a 
few  minutes  think  it  out  together. 

Speaking  concretely,  reality  in  life  will  mean  for  each 
one  of  us  reality  in  thought,  reality  in  feeling,  reality 
in  word,  reality  in  action.  Let  us  look  for  a  moment 
at  our  definitions  under  each  of  these  heads. 

ReaHty  in  thought,  what  is  that  ?  Fundamentally  it 
is  the  agreement  of  our  thinking  with  being,  the  corre- 
spondence of  the  concept  or  of  the  mental  process,  of 
whatever  kind  it  be,  to  the  entity,  the  phenomenon,  the 
fact,  the  force,  which  originates  or  conditions  its  exist- 
ence. Reality  in  thought  is  secured  when  the  entity, 
the  fact,  the  force,  is  clearly,  fully,  vitally  apprehended 
by  the  mind,  so  that  its  qualities  and  energies  become 
warp  and  woof  of  the  mental  and  spiritual  life.  Law, 
for  example,  becomes  a  reaUty  in  thought  when  my 
mind  so  fully  identifies  itself  with  it  that  the  processes, 
the  cogencies,  the  restrictions,  and  the  requirements  of 
law  are  reproduced  in  my  intellectual  history,  so  that 
thinking  becomes  to  me,  for  the  time,  a  process  of  leg- 
islation, and  my  soul  becomes  a  Sinai. 

Reality  in  feeling,  what  is  that?  It  is  the  full  and 
adequate  response  of  the  emotional  life  to  the  reality  in 
thought,  as  we  have  just  considered  it.  It  implies  that 
the  external  stimulus,  the  entity,  the  fact,  the  force,  is 
an  expression  not  only  of  intelligence,  but  of  loving 
purpose.  As  in  thought,  reality  means  mind  making 
the  right  answer  to  mind,  so  in  feeling  reality  means 
heart  making  the  right  ansv/er  to  heart,  right  in  meas- 
ure, right  in  quality.  Beauty  for  instance,  is  a  reality 
when  its  radiance  is  a  glow  within,  when  its  glory  is  a 
rapture,  when  its  mystery  is  a  hush  of  awe,  when  its 
pathos  is  a  tear,  when  its  divinity  is  an  inspiration,  and 


400  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

when  the  heart  filled  with  its  Shekinah-Hght,  is  a  temple 
of  ecstasy,  prayer,  and  praise. 

Reality  in  speech,  what  is  that?  It  is  the  equiva- 
lence of  the  utterance  with  the  thought  or  the  feeling, 
as  the  embodiment  of  the  thing,  or  fact,  or  force  of 
which  it  is  the  product.  Speech  is  real  when  it  gives 
the  measure,  the  quality,  the  power,  the  life  of  that 
which  it  expresses,  when  it  rings  with  the  inteUigence 
or  thrills  with  the  sensibility  of  the  thinking,  sensitive 
spirit,  when  the  Yea  of  the  tongue  expresses  the  full 
and  mighty  affirmative  of  the  entire  man  ;  nothing  more, 
nothing  less ;  when  the  spoken  Nay  utters  the  absolute, 
emphatic  protest  of  mind,  heart,  and  conscience,  noth- 
ing more,  nothing  less ;  when  the  voice  of  man  sounds 
forth  as  the  very  trumpet  of  God. 

Reality  in  action,  what  is  that?  It  is  the  right,  liv- 
ing, adequate,  expression  in  deed  of  all  forces  and 
voices  of  the  inner  life  which  demand  expression,  so 
that  the  outer  life  shall  be  the  living  echo  of  the  inner, 
the  visible  index  of  the  central  personality.  Life  is 
real  when  the  deepest  inmost  soul  flushes  all  over  the 
face  of  it  and  thrills  along  every  fibre  of  it,  and  flashes 
with  electric  fire  from  every  point  of  it,  so  that  all  who 
witness  it  see  soul,  and  all  who  touch  it,  feel  the  very 
fire  of  God. 

This  reality,  beloved,  reality  in  thought,  in  feeling, 
in  word,  in  action,  is  what  I  would  hold  up  before  you 
to-day,  over  against  all  "  the  fair,  fond  fancies  dear  to 
youth,"  which  burst  like  bubbles  under  the  rude  shocks 
of  experience,  over  against  all  the  dreamy  hesitancies, 
or  the  more  painful  questionings  which  confront  us  at 
the  dividing  of  the  ways,  and  especially  over  against 
all  the  illusions  of  a  false  philosophy,  of  a  shallow  cul- 
ture, or  of  an  unhealthy  social  life  ;  this  reality  would 
I  hold  up  before  you  as  the  most  priceless  possession, 


FAREWELL   ADDRESS.  4OI 

as  the  noblest  inspiration,  as  the  mightiest  force  with 
which  you  can  equip  yourselves  for  your  life  task. 

In  his  bright  and  beautiful  old  age  musings  before  his 
driftwood  fire,  our  large-hearted,  far-visioned  sage  and 
poet,  whose  heart  is  still  young  under  its  burden  of 
fourscore  years,  sings  of  himself, 

"  I  turn  from  all  that  only  seems, 
And  seek  the  sober  grounds  of  truth.'* 

This  is  the  lesson  which  the  "  years  that  bring  the  phi- 
losophic mind "  have  taught  Whittier.  I  would  fain 
urge  it,  my  young  brethren,  on  you  now  in  your  early 
manhood.  '*Turn  from  all  that  only  seems."  Shun 
all  shams.  Renounce  all  make-believes.  Fling  away 
all  mere  forms.  Bury  all  corpse-like  conventionalisms. 
Burn  all  empty  shells.  Cast  to  the  moles  and  the  bats 
all  "idols,"  as  Bacon  calls  them,  as  the  Apostle  John 
calls  them. 

"Seek  the  sober  grounds  of  truth."  Dig  down  to 
the  bed-rock.  Seek  reality  as  the  ground  of  thought, 
conviction,  experience,  Hfe.  Build  on  ''  the  founda- 
tions"  which  cannot  be  moved,  not  on  the  drifting 
sand,  but  on  the  cornerstone  which  upholds  the  very 
heavens,  the  eternal  thought  of  God,  the  Word  which 
endureth  forever. 

But  first  of  all,  let  me  urge  on  each  one  of  you,  as 
the  indispensable  condition  of  all  the  rest,  be  real. 
Identify  yourself  with  the  abiding  essence,  the  endur- 
ing law,  the  solid  substance  that  underlies  all  appear- 
ances and  forms.  Make  a  verity  of  your  own  being,  a 
reahty  of  your  own  life.  Let  me  remind  you  once 
more  of  what  I  have  had  occasion  so  often  to  impress 
on  you  in  the  class-room,  that  perhaps  the  nearest 
English  equivalent  of  the  Bible  word  Truth,  is  Re- 
ality.    The    Old  Testament    ' Enicth,    is   the   stability 


402  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

which  nothing  can  move.  The  New  Testament  AXijOeia, 
is  the  actuahty  which  cannot  be  hidden,  the  lucid  trans- 
parency which  needs  no  disguise.  Our  word,  tmt/i, 
at  least  as  we  commonly  use  and  define  it,  suggests  a 
notion  which  is  too  purely  intellectual,  too  narrowly 
scholastic  and  speculative.  But  what  the  Bible  calls 
Truth  is  more  a  matter  of  the  heart  than  of  the  head, 
more  a  life  than  a  definition  or  a  system.  It  is  as  much 
ethical  as  intellectual^  as  truly  practical  as  theoretical. 
It  means  character  no  less  than  a  creed.  It  is,  as  we 
have  seen,  the  thinking,  the  feeling,  the  speaking,  the 
doing  which  synthesizes  with  being.  Bem^,  therefore, 
what  one  07i^/it  to  be,  under  the  rule  of  law  without ; 
dei?i^  wha.t  one  must  he,  under  the  stress  of  conscience 
within ;  being-  what  one  would  be,  under  the  impulse  of 
the  loftiest  aspiration ;  being  what  one  is  to  be,  after  the 
divine  ideal  and  purpose ;  being  all  this  is  the  condition 
of  all  reality  in  life. 

First  of  all,  then,  be  real ;  be  your  true,  your  very, 
your  divinest  self.  Alas !  how  many  there  are,  even 
among  God's  servants,  who  mock  themselves,  who  not 
only  to  others,  but  to  themselves,  wear  a  mask !  The 
self  which  they  enthrone  and  serve  is  an  unreality,  a 
debasement  of  the  divine  ideal,  the  product  of  agencies 
in  the  world,  and  within  themselves,  in  which  they 
have  never  sought  or  found  the  loving,  moulding  hand 
of  God.  They  allow  themselves,  with  passive  weak- 
ness, to  become  other  than  their  better  self  longs  and 
prays  to  be.  They  go  floundering  through  the  weari- 
some cycles  of  struggle  so  vividly  portrayed  in  the 
seventh  chapter  of  Romans,  until  the  «uroc  lyoy,  the 
real  self,  is  overpowered  and  lost.  This  disloyalty, 
alas,  is  the  fatal  mistake,  the  error  of  errors,  nay  more, 
the  sin  of  sins.  Be  real.  Be  loyal  to  the  best,  the 
purest,  the  most  godlike ;  true  to  God,  and  thus  true  to 


FAREWELL    ADDRESS.  4O3 

yourself;  true  to  the  divine  Spirit,  which  is  the  vital 
breath  of  the  human  spirit ;  true  to  the  divine  Light, 
which  coming  into  the  world  lighteth  every  man  ;  true 
to  the  divine  law,  which  marshalls  the  elements,  which 
links  the  stars,  which  sways  the  conscience,  and  binds 
the  will ;  in  a  word,  so  truly  07ie  with  God,  that  His 
thinking  shall  be  your  thought.  His  will  shall  be  your 
volition,  His  life  of  love  shall  be  your  love  and  life. 
"My  eye,"  said  Eckhart,  ''and  God's  eye  are  one  eye, 
one  vision,  one  recognition,  one  love."  Discount,  so 
far  as  may  be  necessary,  the  mystical  exaggeration  of 
the  saying,  but  hold  fast  its  core  of  truth.  "In  Thy 
light  shall  we  see  light."  "Blessed  are  the  pure  in 
heart,  for  they  shall  see  God." 

Yourself  being  real,  let  every  thought  be  a  reality. 
Be  loyal  to  every  fact,  to  every  teaching  of  the  Word, 
to  every  lesson  of  providence,  to  every  precept  of  the 
Spirit.  Break  through  the  shell  to  the  kernel,  through 
the  form  to  the  substance.  Pierce  through  the  human 
to  the  divine.  Fill  the  abstraction  with  the  breath  of 
life.  Plunge  the  definition  into  the  crucible  of  the  most 
earnest,  vital  fires  of  your  thinking  soul,  until  it  comes 
forth  again  a  red-hot  conviction.  Probe  every  term  of 
your  proposition  until  it  yields  you  its  deepest  secret. 
Question  every  word  of  your  text,  until  it  speaks  to  you 
its  message  in  a  voice  vibrating  with  divinity  in  its  every 
tone.  Do  your  own  questioning,  put  your  own  ear  to 
the  telephone,  and  be  not  satisfied  until  your  text,  your 
chapter,  your  Psalm,  your  Epistle,  your  Gospel  shall  de- 
liver its  personal  message  to  you.  "Prove  all  things, 
hold  fast  that  which  is  good."  Let  nothing  be  a  mat- 
ter of  mere  rote  or  routine.  Get  into  living  contact 
with  every  phase  of  life  and  experience.  Get  at  the 
men  among  whom  you  live  and  labor ;  the  men  them- 
selves, not  their  names,  their  clothes,  their  homes,  their 


404  LLEWELYN    lOAN    EVANS. 

exterior  accompaniments,  but  the  real  men,  women, 
children,  their  living,  real  selves ;  their  throbbing,  per- 
chance their  sleeping  brains  ;  their  numbed,  hardened, 
or  yet  perhaps  their  bleeding,  burdened,  struggling 
hearts.  Realize  the  facts  with  which  you  have  to  deal : 
sin,  sorrow,  falsehood,  conscience,  passion,  prejudice, 
duty,  love,  law,  penalty,  the  image  of  the  devil,  the  im- 
age of  God.  Realize  the  Gospel  you  preach.  Let  it 
be  not  a  matter  of  hearsay,  of  tradition,  of  book-lore, 
but  the  voice  of  the  living  Christ,  so  that  you  can  say 
to  all  your  teachers:  ''Now  we  believe  not  because  of 
your  saying,  for  we  have  heard  Him  ourselves,  and 
know  that  this  is  indeed  the  Christ,  the  Saviour  of  the 
world." 

Let  ^v^ry  feeling  be  a  reality,  not  an  idle,  lackadaisi- 
cal sentiment ;  not  a  puff  or  a  gush  of  dilettanteism : 
not  an  emotional  luxury,  a  bit  of  spiritual  epicureanism, 
but  an  embodiment  of  the  correlation  of  the  divine  en- 
ergy ;  a  truth  from  Sinai  or  from  Calvary;  a  message 
from  Hermon  or  from  Gethsemane ;  a  miracle  of  wis- 
dom from  parable  or  sermon,  or  of  grace  from  the 
manger  or  the  Cross ;  a  tear  from  Olivet,  or  a  flash  of 
wrath  from  the  Scourger  of  money-changers,  and 
Pharisees ;  the  power  of  an  endless  life,  striking  into 
your  inmost  being,  and  there  becoming  holy  fear,  burn- 
ing zeal,  melting  pity,  exalted  joy,  all-conquering  faith, 
all-consuming  love.  Christlike  consecration  to  the  service 
of  humanity  and  of  God. 

Let  every  word  be  a  reality.  Let  your  preaching  be 
not  an  empty  sound,  not  a  meaningless  echo  of  what 
has  been  said  before,  not  a  strain  of  conventionalism, 
not  a  string  of  lifeless  formulas,  not  the  rattling  of  dry 
bones,  but  a  living  voice  from  a  living  soul,  a  loving 
message  from  a  loving  heart.    Let  thoughts  that  breathe 


FAREWELL    ADDRESS.  4O5 

become  words  that  burn.  Let  feelings  that  weep  be- 
come appeals  that  melt.  Let  truths  that  have  captured 
you  go  forth  as  convictions  to  take  others  by  storm. 
Give  your  own  living  interpretation  of  the  Word  as  it 
has  touched,  stirred,  upheaved,  re-created  you.  The 
German  proverb  says:  ''Where  the  life  is  lightning, 
the  words  will  be  thunder."  Luther's  words  have  been 
called  thunderbolts  and  battles.  Well  they  might  be, 
for  Luther  himself  was  a  son  of  thunder,  a  divine  storm. 
Eternity  thundered  in  his  soul,  and  his  life  was  charged 
with  heaven's  own  lightnings.  "  I  have  believed,  there- 
fore have  I  spoken."  "We  declare  what  we  have 
known."     Let  these  be  your  mottos. 

And  so,  finally,  let  your  life  be  a  reality;  a  reality, 
because  in  every  action  your  very  self  shall  express  it- 
self, your  deepest  convictions  shall  shape  themselves  in 
visible  forms  of  beneficence,  your  heart-life  shall  live  it- 
self out,  your  heart-love  shall  pour  itself  forth,  your  ten- 
derest  compassions  shall  embody  themselves  in  helpful 
activities,  your  wrath  against  sin  shall  burn  with  the  fire 
of  God's  righteousness,  your  zeal  for  truth  shall  glow 
with  the  ardor  of  an  enthusiasm  caught  at  the  feet  of 
the  Master,  your  every  energy  and  movement  shall 
transmit  Pentecostal  power,  your  character  shall  be  seen 
and  known  as  the  outshining  of  the  indwelling  Christ, 
your  influence  shall  ever  be  the  upHfting  and  transform- 
ing power  of  the  Cross  working  in  your  heart  and  life, 
so  that  all  who  see  you,  shall  everywhere  and  always 
take  knowledge  of  you  that  you  have  been  with  Jesus, 
have  learned  of  Him,  nay,  "have  learned  Christ"  him- 
self, "if  so  be  that  ye  have  heard  Him  and  have  been 
taught  by  Him,  even  as  reality  is  in  Christ." 

"Finally,  my  brethren,  rejoice  in  the  Lord  .... 
and  again  I  say,  Rejoice."     Valete I  "Be  strong  in  the 


406  LLEWELYN  lOAN  EVANS. 

Lord  and  in  the  power  of  His  might."  And  may  the 
grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  abound  toward  you  all 
evermore ;  may  the  love  of  God  be  plentifully  shed 
abroad  in  your  hearts,  and  may  the  peace  and  joy  of 
the  Comforter  abide  with  you  to  the  end  of  the  days. 
Amen. 


THE   END. 


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